hd  %dh  <1  >w/  :'<J  \w,  I Ji  v i 


A BOOK  FOB  A CORNER ; 


OR, 

Mnilm  in  $rn®  anil 

FROM  AUTHORS 

THE  BEST  SUITED  TO  THAT  MODE  OF  ENJOYMENT 


WITH 

COMMENTS  ON  EACH,  AND  A GENERAL  INTRODUCTION, 


BY  LEIGH  HUNT. 


NEW  YORK; 

DERBY  & JACKSON,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 
1S59. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


PFEFACE. 


N ample  account  of  the  nature  of  this  work  will  be 


±X.  found  in  the  Introduction  ; but  to  give  a brief  and 
more  general  idea  of  the  entertainment  which  it  is  pro- 
posed to  set  before  the  purchaser,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
state  in  this  place,  that  the  book,  for  the  most  part,  is  a 
collection  of  passages  from  such  authors  as  retain,  if  not 
the  highest,  yet  the  most  friendly  and  as  it  were  domes- 
tic hold  upon  us  during  life,  and  sympathize  with  us 
through  all  portions  of  it.  Hence  the  first  extract  is  a 
Letter  addressed  to  an  Infant,  the  last  the  Elegy  in  the 
Churchyard,*  and  the  intermediate  ones  have  something 
of  an  analogous  reference  to  the  successive  stages  of 
existence.  It  is  therefore  intended  to  be  read  by  intel- 
ligent persons  of  all  times  of  life,  the  youthful  associa 
tions  in  it  being  such  as  the  oldest  readers  love  to  call 
to  mind,  and  the  oldest  such  as  all  would  gladly  meet 


* The  last  article  of  the  Second  Series. 


G 


PREFACE. 


with  in  their  decline.  It  lias  no  politics  in  it,  no  polem- 
ics, nothing  to  offend  the  delicatest  mind.  The  inno- 
centest  boy  and  the  most  cautious  of  his  seniors  might 
alike  be  glad  to  look  over  the  other’s  shoulder,  and  find 
him  in  his  corner  perusing  it. 

This  may  be  speaking  in  a boastful  manner ; but  an 
Editor  has  a right  to  boast  of  his  originals,  especially 
when  they  are  such  as  have  comforted  and  delighted  him 
throughout  his  own  life,  and  are  for  that  reason  recom- 
mended by  him  to  others. 


CONTENTS  OF  FIRST  SERIES. 


Nature  of  the  present  Work,  and  a few  Remarks  on  its  Read- 
ers   ^ 

Letter  to  a New-born  Child Catherine  Talbot.  27 

The  Schoolmistress Shenstone.  oO 

Grown  Schoolboys.  A Letter  to  Geo.  Montagu  Horace  Walpole.  42 
Ode  on  Solitude.  Written  at  twelve  years  of  age  . . Pope.  45 

Sir  Bertrand — A Fragment Pr-  Aikin.  47 

Robinson  Crusoe.  The  Five  Points  in  his  History  . . . Pe  Foe.  53 

Crusoe’s  Meditations  and  Mode  of  Life 56 

He  finds  the  Print  of  a Man’s  Foot  on  the  Shore  ...  59 

Sees  Savages  in  the  Island,  and  obtains  a Servant  . . . 6o 

Peter  Wilkins’s  Discovery  of  the  Flying  Woman.  PoUt  Pultock.  73 

Gil  Blas  and  the  Parasite Le  Sage.  96 

Ludovico  in  the  Haunted  Chamber.  From  the  “Mysteries  of 

Udolpho” Mrs.  Radcliffe.  104 

The  Warning.  From  the  Novel  of  “ Nature  and  Art  ” Mrs.  Inchbald.  128 

John  Buncle Thomas  Amory.  lo7 

Delights  of  Books  of  Travel 1 ^ 

Wandering  Tartars  and  their  Chief  Zagatai,  in  the  Thir- 
teenth Century William  de  Rubruquis.  154 

Passage  of  the  Desert  of  Lop Marco  Polo.  162 

Kubla  Khan “ “ 16* 

Kubla  Khan’s  Palace  at  Xanadu “ “ 165 

Kubla  Khan’s  Person  and  State “ “ 

Friar  Oderic’s  Rich  Man  who  was  fed  by  Fifty 

Virgins **  w 

Of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  . . . . “ “ l?1 


8 


CONTEXTS. 


Delights  of  Books  of  Travel — Continued. 

How  Prester  John  burnt  up  his  Enemy’s  Men 

and  Horses “ “ 

Praise  of  Women Ledyard. 

Bed  in  the  Desert Mungo  Park. 

First  Sight  of  the  Niger “ “ 

Kindness  of  a Woman  to  him,  and  a Song 

over  his  Distress “ “ 

He  passes  a Lion “ “ 

Narrow  Escape  from  another  Lion  ...  “ " 

Moss  in  the  Desert “ “ 

A Shipwreck,  a Sea  Voyage,  and  an  Adventure  by  the  Way  . 

Shipwreck  of  a Spanish  Vessel  . . . Cyrus  Redding. 

A Sea  Voyage,  and  Adventure  by  the  Way  . . . Cook. 

Business,  Books,  and  Amusement.  Passages  from  his  Autobiogra- 
phy   William  Hutton. 


PACK 

173 

175 

177 

179 

180 

182 

184 

184 

189 

190 

193 

217 


NATURE  OF  THE  PRESENT  WORK, 


AND  A 


FEW  REMARKS  ON  ITS  READERS. 


HIS  compilation  is  intended  for  all  lovers  of  books,  at 


every  time  of  life,  from  childhood  to  old  age,  particu- 
larly such  as  are  fond  of  the  authors  it  quotes,  and  who 
enjoy  their  perusal  most  in  the  quietest  places.  It  is  in- 
tended for  the  boy  or  girl  who  loves  to  get  with  a book 
into  a corner — for  the  youth  who  on  entering  life  finds  his 
advantage  in  having  become  acquainted  with  books — for 
the  man  in  the  thick  of  life,  to  whose  spare  moments  books 
are  refreshments^— and  for  persons  in  the  decline  of  life, 
who  reflect  on  what  they  have  experienced,  and  to  whom 
books  and  gardens  afford  their  tranquillest  pleasures. 

It  is  a book  (not  to  say  it  immodestly)  intended  to  lie 
in  old  parlour  windows,  in  studies,  in  cottages,  in  cabins 
aboard  ship,  in  country-inns,  in  country-houses,  in  summer- 
houses, in  any  houses  that  have  wit  enough  to  like  it,  and 
are  not  the  mere  victims  of  a table  covered  with  books  for 
show. 


1* 


10 


INTRODUCTION \ 


When  Slienstone  was  a child,  he  used  to  have  a new 
book  brought  him  from  the  next  country-town,  whenever 
any  body  went  to  market.  If  he  had  gone  to  bed  and  was 
asleep,  it  was  put  behind  his  pillow  ; and  if  it  had  been 
forgotten,  and  he  was  awake,  his  mother  (more  kindly  than 
wisely)  “ wrapped  up  a piece  of  wood  of  the  same  form,  and 
pacified  him  for  the  night.”  This  is  the  sort  of  child  we 
hope  to  be  a reader  of  our  volumes. 

When  Gray  and  Walpole  were  at  Eton,  they  partitioned 
out  the  fields  into  territories  of  which  they  had  read  in 
books,  and  so  ruled  over  them  and  sent  ambassadors  to  one 
another.  These  are  the  sort  of  school-boys  we  look  to  en- 
tertain. 

When  Mrs.  Inchbald,  who  was  a farmer’s  daughter,  first 
came  to  London,  she  was  alone,  and  would  have  been  sub- 
jected to  no  small  perils  but  for  the  knowledge  she  had 
acquired  from  books  ; for  she  was  poor,  lovely,  and  sensitive. 
She  turned  the  knowledge  to  the  greatest  account,  and  lived 
to  add  precious  matter  to  the  stock.  We  flatter  ourselves, 

or  rather  we  dare  to  aver,  considering  the  authors  who 

m 

furnish  our  extracts,  that  nobody  would  have  more  approved 
of  our  book  than  Mrs.  Inchbald. 

Some  of  the  most  stirring  men  in  the  world,  persons  in 
the  thick  of  business  of  all  kinds,  and  indeed  with  the  busi- 
ness of  the  world  itself  on  their  hands, — Lorenzo  de  Medici, 
for  instance,  who  was  at  once  the  great  merchant  and  the 
political  arbiter  of  his  time, — have  combined  with  their 
other  energies  the  greatest  love  of  books,  and  found  no  re- 


INTRODUCTION. 


11 


creation  at  once  so  wholesome  and  so' useful.  We  hope 
many  a man  of  business  will  refresh  himself  with  the  shout 
pieces  in  these  volumes,  and  return  to  his  work  the  fitter  to 
baffle  craft,  and  yet  retain  a reverence  for  simplicity. 

Every  man  who  has  a right  sense  of  business,  whether 
his  business  be  that  of  the  world  or  of  himself,  has  a respect 
for  all  right  things  apart  from  it ; because  business  with 
him  is  not  a mindless  and  merely  instinctive  industry,  like 
that  of  a beetle  rolling  its  ball  of  clay,  but  an  exercise  of 
faculties  congenial  with  the  other  powers  of  the  human 
being,  and  all  working  to  some  social  end.  Hence  he  ap- 
proves of  judicious  and  reflecting  leisure — of  domestic  and 
social  evenings— of  suburban  retreats— of  gardens— of  ulti- 
mate retirement  “for  good”— of  a reading  and  reflective 
old  age.  Such  retirements  have  been  longed  for,  and  in 
many  instances  realized,  by  wise  and  great  men  of  all  classes, 
from  the  Diocletians  of  old  to  the  Foxes  and  Burkes  of  our 
own  days.  Warren  Hastings,  who  had  ruled  in  India, 
yearned  for  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood  ; and  lived  to  be 
happy  in  them.  The  wish  to  possess  a country-house,  a 
retreat,  a nest,  a harbour  of  some  kind  from  the  storms  and 
even  from  the  agitating  pleasures  of  life,  is  as  old  as  the 
sorrows  and  joys  of  civilization.  The  child  feels  it  when 
he  “ plays  at  house the  schoolboy,  when  he  is  reading  in 
his  corner ; the  lover,  when  he  thinks  of  his  mistress. 
Epicurus  felt  it  in  his  garden  ; Horace  and  Yirgil  expressed 
their  desire  of  it  in  passages  which  the  sympathy  of  man- 
kind has  rendered  immortal.  It  was  the  end  of  all  the 


12 


INTRODUCTION . 


wisdom  and  experience  of  Shakspeare.  He  retired  to  his 
native  town,  and  built  himself  a house  in  which  he  died. 
And  who  else  docs  not  occasionally  u flit  ” somewhere  mean- 
time if  he  can  ? The  country  for  many  miles  round  Lon- 
don, and  indeed  in  most  other  places,  is  adorned  with  houses 
and  grounds  of  men  of  business,  who  arc  whirled  to  and  fro 
on  wTcckly  or  daily  evenings,  and  who  would  all  find  some- 
thing to  approve  in  the  closing  chapters  of  our  work.  The 
greatest  moneyed  man  of  our  time,  Rothschild,  who  weighed 
kings  in  his  balance,  could  not  do  without  his  house  at 
Gunnersbury.  Even  the  turbulent  De  Retz,  according  to 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  became  the  sweetest  of  retired  Signiors, 
and  did  nothing  but  read  books  and  feed  his  trout.  It  is 
customary  to  jest  upon  such  men,  and  indeed  upon  all  re- 
tirement ; to  say  that  they  would  still  meddle  with  affairs 
if  they  could,  and  that  retirement  is  a failure  and  a “ bore.” 
Fox  did  not  think  so.  It  is  possible  that  De  Retz  would 
have  meddled  fast  enough  ; nor  are  many  energetic  men 
superior,  perhaps,  to  temptations  of  their  spirit  in  this  way, 
when  such  occur.  But  this  does  not  hinder  them  from  en- 
joying another  and  a seasonable  pleasure  meantime.  On 
the  contrary,  this  very  energy  is  the  thing  which  hinders  it 
from  palling  ; that  is  to  say,  supposing  their  intellects  are 
large  enough  to  include  a sense  of  it.  De  Retz,  like  Burke 
and  Fox.  was  a lover  of  books.  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  who 
retired  only  to  be  sick  and  to  die,  did  not  care  for  books 
Occupation  is  the  necessary  basis  of  all  enjoyment ; and  he 
who  cannot  read,  or  botanize,  or  farm,  or  amuse  himself 


INTRODUCTION. 


1 o 
1 D 

with  his  neighbours,  or  exercise  his  brain  with  thinking,  is 
in  a bad  way  for  the  country  at  any  time,  much  more  for 
retiring  into  it.  He  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  get  back  as 
fast  as  he  can,  and  be  hustled  into  a sensation  by  a mob. 

u Books,  Venus,  books.”  It  is  those  that  teach  us  to 
refine  on  our  pleasures  when  young,  and  which,  having  so 
taught  us,  enable  us  to  recall  them  with  satisfaction  when 
old.  For  let  the  half-witted  say  what  they  will  of  delu- 
sions, no  thorough  reader  ever  ceased  to  believe  in  his 
books,  whatever  doubts  they  might  have  taught  him  by 
the  way.  They  are  pleasures  too  palpable  and  habitual  for 
him  to  deny.  The  habit  itself  is  a pleasure.  They  contain 
his  young  dreams  and  his  old  discoveries  ; all  that  he  has 
lost,  as  well  as  all  that  he  has  gained  ; and,  as  he  is  no 
surer  of  the  gain  than  of  the  loss,  except  in  proportion  to 
the  strength  of  his  perceptions,  the  dreams,  in  being  re- 
newed, become  truths  again.  He  is  again  in  communion 
with  the  past ; again  interested  in  its  adventures,  grieving 
with  its  griefs,  laughing  with  its  merriment,  forgetting  the 
very  chair  and  room  he  is  sitting  in.  Who,  in  the  myste- 
rious operation  of  things,  shall  dare  to  assert  in  what  unreal 
corner  of  time  and  space  that  man’s  mind  is  ; or  what  better 
proof  he  has  of  the  existence  of  the  poor  goods  and  chattels 
about  him,  which  at  that  moment  (to  him)  are  non-existent  ? 
“ Oh  !”  people  say,  u but  he  wakes  up,  and  sees  them  there.” 
Well  ; he  woke  down  then,  and  saw  the  rest.  What  we 
distinguish  into  dreams  and  realities,  are,  in  both  cases,  but 
representatives  of  impressions.  Who  shall  know  what  dif- 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


ference  there  is  in  them  at  all,  save  that  of  degree,  till  some 
higher  state  of  existence  help  us  to  a criterion? 

For  our  part,  such  real  things  to  us  are  books,  that,  if 
habit  and  perception  make  the  difference  between  real  and 
unreal,  we  may  say  that  we  more  frequently  wake  out  of 
common  life  to  them,  than  out  of  them  to  common  life.  Yet 
we  do  nat  find  the  life  the  less  real.  We  only  feel  books 
to  be  a constituent  part  of  it ; a world,  as  the  poet  says, 

“ Round  which,  with  tendrils  strong  as  fiesli  and  blood, 

Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  may  grow.” 

What  do  readers  care  for  “ existing  things  ” (except  when 
Ireland  is  mentioned,  or  a child  is  grieving)  compared  with 
poetry  and  romance  ? What  for  Bonaparte  and  his  pre- 
tences, compared  with  the  honest- jealousy  of  “ Orlando,”  or 
the  cakes  of  Alfred  ? What  for  all  the  parsons  in  the  world 
(except  Pius  IX.  or  some  Welsh  curate)  compared  with 
Parson  Adams  or  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield?  What  men 
(generally  speaking)  are  they  so  sure  of?  are  so  intimate 
with  ? can  describe,  quote,  and  talk  of  to  one  another  with 
so  much  certainty  of  a mutual  interest  ? And  yet,  when 
readers  wake  up  to  that  other  dream  of  life,  called  real  life 
(and  we  do  not  mean  to  deny  its  palpability),  they  do  not 
find  their  enjoyment  of  it  diminished.  It  is  increased — 
increased  by  the  contrast — by  the  variety — by  the  call  upon 
them  to  show  the  faith  which  books  have  originally  given 
them  in  all  true  and  good  things,  and  which  books,  in  spite 
of  contradiction  and  disappointment,  have  constantly  main 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


tained.  Mankind  are  the  creatures  of  books,  as  well  as  of 
other  circumstances ; and  such  they  eternally  remain ; 
proofs,  that  the  race  is  a noble  and  a believing  race,  and 
capable  of  whatever  books  can  stimulate. 

The  volumes  now  offered  to  our  fellow  readers  originated 
in  this  kind  of  passion  for  books.  They  were  suggested  by 
a wish  we  had  long  felt  to  get  up  a book  for  our  private  en- 
joyment, and  of  a very  particular  and  unambitious  nature. 
It  was  to  have  consisted  of  favourite  passages,  not  out  of  the 
authors  we  most  admired,  but  those  whom  we  most  loved  ; 
and  it  was  to  have  commenced,  as  the  volumes  do,  with 
Shenstone’s  Schoolmistress , and  ended  with  Gray’s  Elegy. 
It  was  to  have  contained  indeed  little  which  the  volumes  do 
not  comprise,  though  not  intended  to  be  half  so  big,  and  it 
was  to  have  proceeded  on  the  same  plan  of  beginning  with 
childhood  and  ending  with  thp  church-yard.  We  did  not 
intend  to  omit  the  greatest  authors  on  account  of  their 
being  the  greatest,  but  because  they  moved  the  feelings  too 
strongly.  What  we  desired  was  not  an  excitement,  but  a 
balm.  Headers,  who  have  led  stirring  lives,  have  such  men 
as  Shakspeare  with  them  always,  in  their  very  struggles  and 
sufferings,  and  in  the  tragic  spectacles  of  the  world.  Great 
crowds  and  great  passions  are  Shakspeares  ; and  we,  for  one 
(and  such  we  take  to  be  the  case  with  many  readers),  are 
sometimes  as  willing  to  retire  from  their  “ infinite  agitation 
of  wit,”  as  from  strifes  less  exalted  ; and  retreat  into  the 
placider  corners  of  genius  more  humble.  It  is  out  of  no 
disrespect  to  their  greatness  ; neither,  we  may  be  allowed 


16 


INTRODUCTION. 


to  say,  is  it  from  any  fear  of  being  unable  to  sustain  it ; for 
we  have  seen  perhaps  as  many  appalling  faces  of  things  in 
our  time  as  they  have,  and  we  arc  always  ready  to  confront 
more  if  duty  demand  it.  But  we  do  not  choose  to  be  always 
suffering  over  again  in  books  what  we  have  suffered  in  the 
world.  We  prefer,  when  in  a state  of  repose,  to  renew  what 
we  have  enjoyed — to  possess  wholly  what  we  enjoy  still — 
to  discern  in  the  least  and  gentlest  things  the  greatest  and 
sweetest  intentions  of  Nature — and  to  cultivate  those  sooth- 
ing, serene,  and  affectionate  feelings,  which  leave  us  in  peace 
with  all  the  world,  and  in  good  hope  of  the  world  to  come. 
The  very  greatest  genius,  after  all,  is  not  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world,  any  more  than  the  greatest  city  in  the  world 
is  the  country  or  the  sky.  It  is  a concentration  of  some  of 
its  greatest  powers,  but  it  is  not  the  greatest  diffusion  of  its 
might.  It  is  not  the  habit  of  its  success,  the  stability  of 
its  sereneness.  And  this  is  what  readers  like  ourselves  desire 
to  feel  and  know.  The  greatest  use  of  genius  is  but  to  sub- 
serve to  that  end ; to  further  the  means  of  enjoying  it,  and 
to  freshen  and  keep  it  pure  ; as  the  winds  and  thunders, 
which  come  rarely,  are  purifiers  of  the  sweet  fields,  which 
are  abiding. 

The  book,  therefore,  as  originally  contemplated,  was  to 
consist  principally,  besides  the  pieces  mentioned,  of  such 
others  as  Cowley’s  Garden , Wotton’s  Happy  Life , the  fa- 
vourite passages  about  the  country  from  Horace  and  Virgil, 
Claudian’s  Old  Man  of  Verona , Pope’s  Ode  on  Solitude , a 
selection  from  the  Coverley  papers  in  the  Spectator , Thom- 


IXTRODUCTIOX. 


17 


son’s  Castle  of  Indolence , Letters  of  Gray,  Virgil’s  Gnat 
out  of  Spenser  ; and,  though  we  have  several  editions  of  the 
work  constantly  by  us,  we  think  we  could  not  have  denied 
ourselves  the  pleasure  of  having  something  out  of  the  Ara- 
bian Nights.  Our  Sequestered  Book  (for  such,  in  our  mind, 
we  called  it)  would  hardly  have  seemed  complete  without  a 
chapter  or  two  about  Sindbad  or  the  Forty  Thieves , or  the 
retirement  of  the  Fairy  Banou.  The  book  was  to  have 
been  addressed  entirely  to  lovers  of  sequestered  pleasures, 
and  chiefly  to  such  as  were  in  the  decline  of  life,  or  poeti- 
cally beginning  it. 

When  the  volume,  however,  came  to  be  considered  with 
a view  to  publication;  objections  were  made  to  the  smallness 
of  its  size,  and  the  probable  fewness  of  its  readers.  Had  we 
been  rich;  we  should  have  parried  the  objection,  and  sent 
forth  a volume  at  any  rate,  with,  the  contents  of  which  the 
few  would  have  been  pleased.  We  consoled  ourselves  with 
reflecting  that  we  had  other  favourite  passages  which  could 
be  included  in  a larger  book  ; and  an  extension  of  the  plan 
now  struck  us,  which  in  the  eyes  of  many  readers,  perhaps 
of  most,  would  in  all  probability  improve  it.  This  was,  to 
suppose  our  sequestered  reader  thinking;  not  merely  of  the 
pleasures  of  his  childhood  or  of  his  old  age.  but  of  his  whole 
life,  past  or  to  come,  and  thus  calling  to  mind  passages 
from  favourite  authors  of  all  kinds  in  illustration  of  its  suc- 
cessive phases.  The  spirit  of  the  first  conception  was  still, 
however,  to  be  carefully  retained.  Life,  without  effemi- 
nately shutting  one’s  eyes  to  its  perplexities,  was  to  be  re 


18 


INTRODUCTION. 


garded,  not  in  spleen,  or  in  sorrow,  or  in  narrowness  of  any 
kind,  but  with  a cheerfulness  befitting  childhood,  a manli- 
ness befitting  a man,  and  with  that  calm  and  loving  wisdom 
in  age  which  discerns  so  much  beauty  and  goodness  in  the 
face  of  Nature,  that  it  cannot  doubt  the  benevolence  of  her 
soul. 

Hence  the  inclusion  in  the  present  volume  of  knaveries 
and  other  half-witted  activities  out  in  the  world,  and  of 
terrors  and  tragedies  in  solitude.  Hence  extracts  from  Le 
Sage  and  Fielding,  from  Steele,  Smollett-,  Goldsmith,  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  and  others. 

We  have  imagined  a book-loving  man,  or  man  able 
to  refresh  himself  with  books,  at  every  successive  period  of 
his  life ; — the  child  at  his  primer,  the  sanguine  boy,  the 
youth  entering  the  world,  the  man  in  the  thick  of  it,  the 
man  of  alternate  business  and  repose,  the  retired  man  calm- 
ly considering  his  birth  and  his  death  ; and  in  this  one  hu- 
man being  we  include,  of  course,  the  whole  race  and  both 
sexes,  mothers,  wives,  and  daughters,  and  all  which  they  do 
to  animate  and  sweeten  existence.  Thus  our  invisible,  or 
rather  many-bodied  hero  (who  is  the  reader  himself),  is  in 
the  first  instance  a baby  ; then  a child  under  the  School- 
mistress of  Shenstone  ; then  the  schoolboy  with  Gray  and 
Walpole,  reading  poetry  and  romance;  then  Gil  Bias  en- 
tering the  world  ; then  the  sympathiser  with  the  John  B un- 
cles who  enjoy  it,  and  the  Travellers  who  fill  it  with  enter- 
prise ; then  the  matured  man  beginning  to  talk  of  disap- 
pointments. and  standing  in  need  of  admonition  Against 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 


Inconsistency  in  his  Expectations ; then  the  reassured 
man  comforted  by  his  honesty  and  his  just  hopes,  and  re- 
freshing himself  with  his  Club  or  his  country-lodging,  hi? 
pictures,  or  his  theatre ; then  the  retiring,  or  retired,  or 
finally  old  man,  looking  back  with  tenderness  on  his  enjoy- 
ments, with  regret  for  his  errors,  with  comfort  in  his  virtues, 
and  with  a charity  for  all  men,  which  gives  him  a right  to 
the  comfort  ; loving  all  the  good  things  he  ever  loved,  par- 
ticularly the  books  which  have  been  his  companions  and  the 
childhood  which  he  meets  again  in  the  fields  ; and  neither 
wishing  nor  fearing  to  be  gathered  into  that  kindly  bosom 
of  Nature,  which  covers  the  fields  with  flowers,  and  is  en- 
circled with  the  heavens. 

The  reader,  however,  is  not  to  suppose  that  any  atten- 
tion to  this  plan  of  the  book  is  exacted  of  him.  Such  a 
demand  would  be  a pedantry  and  a folly.  It  is  only  sug- 
gested to  him  in  case  he  may  like  it,  and  for  the  purpose  of 
showing  that  we  set  nothing  before  him  -which  does  not 
possess  a principle  of  order.  He  may  regard  the  book,  if 
more  convenient  to  do  so,  as  a mere  set  of  extracts  with 
comments,  or  of  extracts  alone,  not  requiring  comments 
Our  sequestered  book  was  to  have  been  without  comments ; 
and  we  should  have  been  well  content,  had  none  been  de- 
sired for  this.  There  is  a pleasure,  it  is  true,  in  expressing 
love  and  admiration,  and  in  hoping  that  we  contribute  to  the 
extension  of  such  feelings  in  the  world ; but  we  can  truly 
say,  that  we  seldom  quote  a fine  passage,  and  comment 
upon  it  at  any  length,  without  wishing  that  everybody  had 


20 


INTRODUCTION. 


been  as  well  acquainted  with  it  as  ourselves,  and  could 
dispense  with  the  recommendation.  All  wc  expect  of  the 
reader  is  that  he  should  like  the  extracts  on  which  the 
comments  are  made.  If  he  does  not  do  that,  he  has  no 
business  to  be  a reader  of  the  book,  or  perhaps  to  be  a 
reader  at  all.  At  least  he  is  no  universalist ; no  sympa- 
thiser with  the  entire  and  genial  round  of  existence ; and 
it  is  for  the  reader  who  is,  that  these  volumes  arc  emphati- 
cally intended. 

A universalist,  in  one  high  bibliographical  respect,  may 
be  said  to  be  the  only  true  reader ; for  he  is  the  only 
reader  on  whom  no  writing  is  lost.  Too  many  people  ap- 
prove no  books  but  such  as  are  representatives  of  some 
opinion  or  passion  of  their  own.  They  read,  not  to  have 
human  nature  reflected  on  them,  and  so  be  taught  to  know 
and  to  love  everything,  but  to  be  reflected  themselves  as  in 
a pocket  mirror,  and  so  interchange  admiring  looks  with 
their  own  narrow  cast  of  countenance.  The  universalist 
alone  puts  up  with  difference  of  opinion,  by  reason  of  his 
own  very  difference ; because  his  difference  is  a right 
claimed  by  him  in  the  spirit  of  universal  allowance,  and 
not  a privilege  arrogated  by  conceit.  He  loves  poetry  andN 
prose,  fiction  and  matter  of  fact,  seriousness  and  mirth, 
because  lie  is  a thorough  human  being,  and  contains  por- 
tions of  all  the  faculties  to  which  they  appeal.  A man  who 
can  be  nothing  but  serious,  or  nothing  but  merry,  is  but 
half  a man.  The  lachrymal  or  the  risible  organs  are 
wanting  in  ^ him.  He  has  no  business  to  have  eyes  or 


INTRODUCTION. 


21 


muscles  like  other  men.  The  universalist  alone  can  put 
up  with  him.  by  reason  of  the  very  sympathy  of  his  antipa- 
thy. He  understands  the  defect  enough  to  pity,  while  he 
dislikes  it.  The  universalist  is  the  only  reader  who  can 
make  something  out  of  books  for  which  he  has  no  predilec- 
tion. He  sees  differences  in  them  to  sharpen  his  reason- 
ing ; sciences  which  impress  on  him  a sense  of  his  igno- 
rance ; nay,  languages  which,  if  they  can  do  nothing  else, 
amuse  his  eye  and  set  him  thinking  of  other  countries.  He 
will  detect  old  acquaintances  in  Arabic  numerals,  and 
puzzle  over  a sum  or  a problem,  if  only  to  try  and  taste  the 
curiosity  of  it.  He  is  the  only  man  (except  a soldier  or  a 
gardener)  to  whom  an  army  list  or  an  almanac  would  not  be 
thoroughly  disgusting  on  a rainy  day  in  a country  ale- 
house, when  nothing  else  readable  is  at  hand,  and  the 
coach  has  gone  “just  ten  minutes.”  The  zodiacal  light  of 
“ Francis  Moore,  Physician,”  would  not  be  lost  on  him.  He 
would  laugh  at  the  Doctor’s  verses ; wonder  who  St.  Alphage 
or  St.  Hugh  could  have  been,  as  affecting  the  red-letter 
days ; and  see  what  Christian  or  surnames  prevailed  in  the 
army,  or  what  personages  had  authority  in  those  days.  The 
words  “ltoyal  Highness  the  Duke  of  York”  would  set 
him  thinking  on  the  good-natured  though  not  astonishing 
prince,  and  imagining  how  hearty  a dish  of  beef-steaks 
he  would  have  dispatched  in  the  room  in  which  he  was 
sitting. 

Our  compilation,  therefore,  though  desirous  to  please 
all  who  are  willing  to  be  pleased,  is  ambitious  to  satisfy 


22 


INTRODUCTION. 


this  sort  of  person  most  of  all.  It  is  of  his  childhood  we 
were  mostly  thinking  when  we  extracted  the  Schoolmistress, 
lie  will  thoroughly  understand  the  wisdom  lurking  beneath 
the  playfulness  of  its  author.  He  will  know  how  whole- 
some as  well  as  amusing  it  is  to  become  acquainted  with 
books  like  Gil  Bias  and  Joseph  Andrews.  lie  will  derive 
agreeable  terror  from  Sir  Bertram  and  the  Haunted 
Chamber ; will  assent  with  delighted  reason  to  every  sen- 
tence in  Mrs.  BarbauhV s Essay  ; will  feel  himself  wan- 
dering into  solitudes  with  Gi'ay ; shake  honest  hands  with 
Sir  Roger  de  C over  ley ; be  ready  to  embrace  Parson 
Adams , and  to  chuck  Pounce  out  of  window,  instead  of  the 
hat ; will  travel  with  Marco  Polo  and  Mungo  Park ; 
stay  at  home  with  Thomson ; retire  with  Cowley ; be  in- 
dustrious with  Hutton ; sympathizing  with  Shenstonc  and 
Mrs.  Inchbald ; laughing  with  (and  at)  Bundle ; melan- 
choly, and  forlorn,  and  self-restored,  with  the  shipwrecked 
mariner  of  De  Foe.  There  are  Robinson  Crusoes  in  the 
moral  as  well  as  physical  world,  and  even  a universalist 
may  be  one  of  them  ; men,  cast  on  desert  islands  of  thought 
and  speculation  ; without  companionship ; without  worldly 
resources ; forced  to  arm  and  clothe  themselves  out  of  the 
remains  of  shipwrecked  hopes,  and  to  make  a home  for 
their  solitary  hearts  in  the  nooks  and  corners  of  imagina- 
tion and  reading.  It  is  not  the  worst  lot  in  the  world 
Turned  to  account  for  others,  and  embraced  with  patient 
cheerfulness,  it  may,  with  few  exceptions,  even  be  one  of 
the  best.  We  hope  our  volume  may  light  into  the  hands 


INTRODUCTION. 


23 


of  such  men.  Every  extract  which  is  made  in  it,  has  some- 
thing of  a like  second-purpose,  beyond  what  appears  on  its 
face.  There  is  amusement  for  those  who  require  nothing 
more,  and  instruction  in  the  shape  of  amusement  for  those 
who  choose  to  find  it.  We  only  hope  that  the  “knowing 
reader ??  will  not  think  we  have  assisted  inquiry  too 
often.  We  hate,  with  our  friends  the  little  boys,  nothing 
so  much  as  the  “ Moral  ” that  officiously  treads  the  heels  of 
the  great  yEsop,  and  which  assumes  that  the  sage  has  not 
done  his  w'ork  when  he  has  told  his  story.  It  is  bad  enough 
to  be  forced  to  interpret  wisdom  of  any  kind  ; but  to  talk 
after  such  transparent  lessons  as  those,  is  overweeningness 
horrible.  The  little  boys  will  find  nothing  of  the  sort  to 
frighten  them  in  this  book ; and  they  need  not  look  at  the 
prefaces,  if  they  have  no  mind  for  them.  It  is  beautiful  to 
think  how  ignorant  our  grown  memories  are  of  prefaces  to 
books  of  amusement  that  were  put  into  our  hands  when 
young,  and  how  intensely  we  remember  the  best  extracts. 
What  grown  up  people  in  general  know  anything  of  good 
Dr.  Enfield  or  didactic  Dr.  Knox,  or  even  of  Percy,  the 
editor  of  Ancient  Reliques  ? Yet  who  that  has  read  the 
Speaker  and  Elegant  Extracts  ever  forgot  the  soliloquy  in 
Hamlet , Goldsmith’s  Beau  Tibbs  and  Contented  Beggar , 
or  the  story  of  Robin  Hood  ? 

Those  exquisite  humours  of  Goldsmith,  and  the  story  of 
Robin  Hood,  we  have  omitted,  with  a hundred  others,  partlv 
because  we  had  not  room  for  an  abundance  of  things  wlr 
we  admired,  chiefly  because  they  did  not  fall  within  a cei 


24 


INTRODUCTION. 


tain  idea  of  our  plan.  The  extremely  familiar  knowledge 
also  which  readers  have  of  them  might  have  been  another 
objection,  even  in  a work  consisting  chiefly  of  favourite 
passages  ; — things,  which  imply  a certain  amount  of  familiar 
knowledge,  if  not  in  the  public  at  large,  yet  among  readers 
in  general.  If  any  persons  should  object  that  some  of 
these  also  are  too  familiar,  the  answer  is,  that  they  are  of  a 
nature  which  rendered  it  impossible  for  us,  consistently 
with  our  plan,  to  omit  them,  and  that  readers  in  general 
would  have  missed  them.  We  allude,  in  particular,  to  the 
Elegy  in  a Country  Cliurch-Yard  and  the  Ode  on  the 
Prospect  of  Eton  College . It  is  the  privilege  of  fine 
writers,  when  happy  in  their  treatment  of  a universal  sub- 
ject of  thought  or  feeling,  to  leave  such  an  impression  of  it 
in  the  reading  world  as  almost  to  identify  it  with  every- 
body’s own  reflections,  or  constitute  it  a sort  of  involuntary 
mental  quotation.  Of  this  kind  are  Gray’s  reflections  in 
the  church-yard,  and  his  memories  of  scliool-boy  happiness. 
Few  people  who  know  these  passages  by  heart,  ever  think 
of  a church-yard  or  a school-ground  without  calling  them 
to  mind. 

The  nature  and  the  amount  of  the  reader’s  familiarity 
with  many  other  extracts  are  the  reasons  why  we  have  ex- 
tracted them.  They  constitute  part  of  the  object  and 
essence  of  the  book  ; for  the  familiarity  is  not  a vulgar  and 
repulsive  one,  but  that  of  a noble  and  ever-fresh  companion, 
whose  society  we  can  the  less  dispense  with,  the  more  we 
are  accustomed  to  it.  The  book  in  this  respect  resembles 


INTRODUCTION. 


25 


a set  of  pictures  which  it  delights  us  to  live  with,  or  a eol- 
lection  of  favourite  songs  and  pieces  of  music,  which  we  bind 
up  in  volumes  in  order  that  we  may  always  have  them  at 
hand,  or  know  where  to  find  them.  Who,  in  such  a room 
full  of  pictures,  would  object  to  his  Raphael  or  Titian? 
Or  in  such  a collection  of  music,  to  his  Beethoven,  Rossini, 
or  Paisiello  ? Our  book  may  have  little  novelty  in  the  least 
sense  of  the  word ; but  it  has  the  best  in  the  greatest 
sense  ; that  is  to  say,  never-dying  novelty ; — antiquity  hung 
with  ivy -blossoms  and  rose-buds  ; old  friends  with  the  ever- 
new  faces  of  wit,  thought,  and  affection.  Time  has  proved 
the  genius  with  which  it  is  filled.  “ Age  cannot  wither  it,” 
nor  “ custom  stale  its  variety.”  We  ourselves  have  read, 
and  shall  continue  to  read  it  to  our  dying  day  ; and  we 
should  not  say  thus  much,  especially  on  such  an  occasion,  if 
we  did  not  know  that  hundreds  and  thousands  would  do  the 
same,  whether  they  read  it  in  this  collection  or  nol 


I'rttrr  ta  a Mm-hm  Cliilii. 

BY  CATHERINE  TALBOT. 

This  lady,  whose  posthumous  “ Essays  ” and  “ Reflections  ” were  ad* 
mired  in  their  day,  was  niece  of  Thomson’s  friend,  Lord  Chancellor 
Talbot ; and  the  “ very  young  correspondent  ” to  whom  her  pleasant 
letter  is  addressed,  was  daughter  of  the  Chancellor’s  third  son,  John, 
afterwards  a Welsh  judge,  ancestor  of  the  present  Earl  Talbot.  What 
became  of  the  little  lady  is  not  mentioned.  Miss  Talbot  had  very  deli- 
cate health,  which  she  bore  with  great  sweetness  of  temper.  She  led 
a maiden  life,  and  died  in  the  year  1770,  aged  forty-nine. 

YOU  are  heartily  welcome,  my  dear  little  cousin,  into 
this  unquiet  world  ; long  may  you  continue  in  it,  in  all 
the  happiness  it  can  give,  and  bestow  enough  on  all  your 
friends  to  answer  fully  the  impatience  with  which  you  have 
been  expected.  May  you  grow  up  to  have  every  accom- 
plishment that  your  good  friend,  the  Bishop  of  Derry,*  can 
already  imagine  in  you ; and  in  the  meantime,  may  you 
have  a nurse  with  a tuneable  voice,  that  may  not  talk  an 
immoderate  deal  of  nonsense  to  you  You  are  at  present, 
my  dear,  in  a very  philosophical  disposition  : the  gaieties  and 
follies  of  life  have  no  attraction  for  you ; its  sorrows  you 
kindly  commiserate  ! but,  however,  do  not  suffer  them  to 

* Thomas  Bundle,  another  friend  of  Thomson’s  and  the  Chancellor’s. 
See  the  note  ensuing. 


28 


LETTER  TO  A NEW-BORN  CHILD. 


disturb  your  slumbers,  and  find  charms  in  nothing  but  har- 
mony and  repose.  You  have  as  yet  contracted  no  partialities, 
are  entirely  ignorant  of  party  distinctions,  and  look  with  a 
perfect  indifference  on  all  human  splendour.  You  have  an 
absolute  dislike  to  the  vanities  of  dress ; and  are  likely,  for 
many  months,  to  observe  the  Bishop  of  Bristol’s  first  rule 
of  conversation,  Silence,  though  tempted  to  transgress  it  by 
the  novelty  and  strangeness  of  all  objects  round  you.#  As 
you  advance  further  in  life,  this  philosophical  temper  will 
by  degrees  wear  off ; the  first  object  of  your  admiration  will 
probably  be  the  candle,  and  thence  (as  we  all  of  us  do)  you 
will  contract  a taste  for  the  gaudy  and  the  glaring,  without 
making  one  moral  reflection  upon  the  danger  of  such  false 
admiration  as  leads  people  many  a time  to  burn  their  fingers. 
You  will  then  begin  to  show  great  partiality  for  some  very 
good  aunts,  who  will  contribute  all  they  can  towards  spoiling 
you ; but  you  will  be  equally  fond  of  an  excellent  mamma 
who  will  teach  you,  by  her  example,  all  sorts  of  good  qua* 
lities ; only,  let  me  warn  you  of  one  thing,  my  dear,  and 
that  is,  not  to  learn  of  her  to  have  such  an  immoderate  love 
of  home  as  is  quite  contrary  to  all  the  privileges  of  this 
polite  age,  and  to  give  up  so  entirely  all  those  pretty  graces 
of  whim,  flutter,  and  affection,  which  so  many  charitable 
poets  have  declared  to  be  the  prerogative  of  our  sex.  Oh  ! 
my  poor  cousin,  to  what  purpose  will  you  boast  this  prero- 
gative, when  your  nurse  tells  you  (with  a pious  care  to  sow 

* The  Bishop  of  Bristol,  afterwards  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  was 
Seeker.  His  “ first  rule  of  conversation”  is  very  good.  It  was  on  these 
two  prelates  that  Pope  wrote  his  couplet — 

E’en  in  a bishop  I can  spy  desert ; 

Seeker  is  decent,  Bundle  has  a heart. 

By  u decent  ” we  are  to  understand  the  word  in  its  classical  sense  of 
becoming. 


LETTER  TO  A NEW-BORN  CHILD. 


29 


the  seeds  of  jealousy  and  emulation  as  early  as  possible) 
that  you  have  a fine  little  brother  “ come  to  put  your  nose 
out  of  joint?”  There  will  be  nothing  to  be  done  then  but 
to  be  mighty  good ; and  prove  what,  believe  me,  admits  of 
very  little  dispute  (though  it  has  occasioned  abundance), 
that  we  girls,  however  people  give  themselves  airs  of  being 
disappointed,  are  by  no  means  to  be  despised.  The  men  un- 
envied shine  in  public ; but  it  is  we  must  make  their  homes 
delightful  to  them — and,  if  they  provoke  us,  no  less  un- 
comfortable. I do  not  expect  you  to  answer  this  letter  yet 
awhile ; but,  as  I dare  say  you  have  the  greatest  interest 
with  your  papa,  will  beg  you  to  prevail  upon  him  that  we 
may  know  by  a line  (before  his  time  is  engrossed  by  an- 
other secret  committee)  that  you  and  your  mamma  are 
well.  In  the  meantime,  I will  only  assure  you  that  all 
here  rejoice  in  your  existence  extremely ; and  that  I am, 
my  very  young  correspondent,  most  affectionately  yours,  &c. 


€\)t  Irjnrolmistra.  . 

BY  SHENSTONE. 

The  Schoolmistress  is  one  of  those  poems  (delightful,  to  our  thinking) 
which  are  to  be  read  with  a smile  on  the  face,  and  thoughtfulness  at 
heart: — the  smile,  for  the  assumption  of  dignity  in  its  tone;  the 
thoughtfulness,  for  the  human  interest  of  the  subject.  It  is  Shenstone’s 
masterpiece.  Its  playful  imitation  of  the  manner  of  Spenser  saved 
him  from  that  inferior  artificial  style  of  the  day,  which  injured  the 
natural  feeling  of  most  of  his  other  poems ; and  the  manliness  at  the 
heart  of  its  gentle  wisdom  ought  to  have  saved  the  writer  from  the 
fears  wdiich  he  condescended  to  entertain,  lest  undiscerning  critics 
should  take  it  for  something  as  dull  as  themselves.  The  poem  has  the 
pungent  sweetness  and  balminess  of  the  herbs  described  in  its  cottage 
garden.  We  never  think  of  it  without  seeming  to  inhale  their  fra- 
grance. 

The  good  dame,  the  heroine  of  the  poem,  was  the  schoolmistress  of 
Shenstone’s  own  infancy.  He  was  the  offspring  of  a race  now  almost 
extinct,  the  small  uneducated  country-gentleman,  farming  his  own 
estate ; and  he  was  sent  to  the  first  nurse-like  teacher  that  presented 
herself  in  the  neighbourhood.  Her  name  was  Sarah  Lloyd,  Let  this 
be  known,  for  the  glory  and  encouragement  of  all  such  educers  of  in- 
fant “bards  sublime,”  or  future  “Chancellors  in  embryo.”  The  birch- 
tree  is  not  in  so  much  request  as  it  was  in  her  days.  The  “ little  bench 
of  heedless  bishops”  may  now  look  at  it  without  “shaping  it  into 
rods,”  “and  tingling  at  the  view.”  The  change  is  better  for  all  parties, 
considering  that  a proper  amount  of  healthy  vigour,  reflection,  and  su- 
periority to  petty  pains  is  to  be  secured  by  better  means.  It  is  not  for 
its  mode  of  infant  training  that  the  poem  is  here  reprinted ; but  for  its 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


31 


archness,  its  humour,  its  agreeable  description,  and  the  writer’s  thought- 
ful humanity. 

H me  ! full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 


jLjl  To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies, 
While  partial  Fame  doth  with  her  blasts  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone,  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise ; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprize  : 

Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess  ! let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit,  ere  it  dies ; 

Such  as  I oft  have  chauneed  to  espy, 

Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

In  every  village  mark’d  with  little  spire, 

Embower’d  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to  fame, 
There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed  and  mean  attire, 

A matron  old,  whom  we  Schoolmistress  name: 

Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame ; 

They  grieven  sore  in  piteous  durance  pent, 

Aw’d  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame ; 

And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 

For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn’d,  are  sorely  shent 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a birchen  tree, 

Which  Learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stowe ; 
Whilom  a twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 

Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe  ; 

For  not  a wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew, 

But  their  limbs  shudder’d,  and  their  pulse  beat  low. 
And  as  they  look’d,  they  found  their  horror  grew, 
And  shap’d  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view’. 

So  I Lave  seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive) 

A lifeless  phantom  near  a garden  plac’d  ; 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS . 


32 

So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave, 

Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast ; 

They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they  look  aghast ; 

Sad  servitude  ! such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Briton’s  riper  age  e’er  taste ! 

Ne  superstition  clog  his  chance  of  joy, 

Ne  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a patch  so  green, 

On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display ; 

And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board  is  seen, 

Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should  stray, 

Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day  ! 

The  noises  intermix’d,  which  thence  resound, 

Do  learning’s  little  tenement  betray  ; 

Where  sits  the  dame,  disguis’d  in  look  profound, 

And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 

Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield  : 

Her  apron,  dy’d  in  grain,  is  blue,  I trowe, 

As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field  : 

And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays  with  anxious  fear  entwin’d, 

With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  fill’d, 

And  stedfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  join’d, 

And  fury  uncontroul’d,  and  chastisement  unkind.* 

Few  but  have  ken’d,  in  semblance  meet  pourtray’d, 

The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol’s  train, 

Libs,  Notus,  Auster  ;f  these  in  frowns  array’d, 

* A memorial  of  the  tremendous  ingredients  that  composed  the  thun- 
derbolts of  Jupiter. 

^The  winds,  in  the  likeness  of  children,  puffing  and  blowing  in  the 
corners  of  old  maps. 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


33 


How  then  would  fare  or  earth,  or  sky,  or  main, 

W ere  the  stern  god  to  give  his  flaws  the  rein  ? 

And  were  not  she  rebellious  breasts  to  quell, 

And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  maintain, 

The  cot  no  more,  I ween,  were  deem’d  the  cell, 

Where  comely  peace  of  mind  and  decent  order  dwell. 

A russet  stole  was  o’er  her  shoulders  thrown  ; 

A russet  kirtle  fenc’d  the  nipping  air ; 

JT  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own ; 

’T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair ; 

’T  was  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare  ; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  rang’d  around, 

Through  pious  awe  did  term  it  passing  rare  : 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 

And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear; 

Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n’aunt,  forsooth, 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear ; 

Yet  these  she  challeng’d,  these  she  held  right  dear ; 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove, 

Who  should  not  honour’d  eld  with  these  revere  ; 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 

But  there  was  eke  a mind  which  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame  ; 

Which,  ever  and  anon,  impell’d  by  need, 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came ; 

Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim  ; 

And  if  neglect  had  lavish’d  on  the  ground 
2* 


34 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


Fragment  of  bread,  sbe  would  collect  the  same  ; 

For  well  sbe  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 

What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  sbe  found. 

Herbs,  too,  sbe  knew,  and  well  of  each  could  speak, 
That  in  her  garden  sipp’d  the  silvery  dew  ; 

Where  no  vain  flower  disclos’d  a gaudy  streak  ; 

But  herbs  for  use  and  physic  not  a few, 

Of  grey  renown,  within  those  borders  grew  ; 

The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 

Fresh  baum,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue  : 

The  lowly  gill,*  that  never  dares  to  climb  ; 

And  more  I fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung, 

That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues  around  ; 

And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant’s  tongue  ; 

And  plaintain  ribb’d,  that  heals  the  reaper’s  wound  j 
And  marjoram  sweet,  in  shepherd’s  posie  found  ; 

And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be  ere-while  in  arid  bundles  bound, 

To  lurk  amidst  the  labours  of  her  loom, 

And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean  with  mickle  rare  perfume 

And  here  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom  crown’d 
The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer, 

Ere,  driven  from  its  envy’d  site,  it  found 
A sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here, 

Where  edg’d  with  gold  its  glittering  skirts  appear. 

Oh  wassel  days  ! 0 customs  meet  and  well, 

Ere  this  was  banish’d  from  its  lofty  sphere  ! 


* Ground-ivy. 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


35 


Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 

Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and  lordling  dwell. # 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath’s  decent  eve, 

Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did  mete ; 

If  winter ’t  were,  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave, 

But  in  her  garden  found  a summer-seat : 

Sweet  melody  ! to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel’s  sons,  beneath  a foreign  king, 

While  taunting  foemen  did  a song  entreat, 

All  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 

Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore, 

And  pass’d  much  time  in  truly  yirtuous  deed  ; 

And  in  those  elfins’  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The  times  when  Truth  by  Popish  rage  did  bleed, 

And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion’s  meed, 

And  simple  faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 

That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed  ; 

And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  burn  : 

Ah  ! dearest  lord,  forefend,  thilk  days  should  e’er  return. 

In  elbow  chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defac’d, 

In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 

Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  plac’d, 

The  matron  sate ; and  some  with  rank  she  grac’d, 

(The  source  of  children’s  and  of  courtiers’  pride  !) 
Redress’d  affronts  (for  vile  affronts  there  pass’d) 

t liosemary  was  in  great  request  as  a flavourer  of  wine  and  ale,  and 
hence  it  is  associated  by  the  poet  with  the  wassail-bowl  of  old  times. 


36 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


And  warn’d  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 

But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide. 

Itiglit  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry, 

To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise  ; 

Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 

And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise  ; 

And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  frays ; 

Ev’n  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 

While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she  sways ; 
Forewarn’d  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 

T will  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold. 

Lo  ! now  with  state  she  utters  the  command ; 

Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair  ; 

Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand, 

Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are, 

To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair ; 

The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 

St.  George’s  high  achievements  does  declare  ; 

On  which  tliilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 

Kens  the  forthcoming  rod ; — unpleasing  sight,  I ween. 

Ah  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star  ! it  irks  me  whilst  I write  ! 

As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla’s  silver  stream,* 

Oft  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 

Sigh’d  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 

For,  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling’s  late  delight ! 

And  dowm  they  drop.  Appears  his  dainty  skin, 

Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

* Spenser.  Mulla  (Mole)  is  the  river  by  which  he  dwelt  in  Ireland. 


THE  SOHO  OLMISTEESS. 


37 


0 ruthfal  scene  ! when  from  a nook  obscure 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see : 

All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure  : 

She  finds  all  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee ; 

She  meditates  a prayer  to  set  him  free  ; 

Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny 
(If  gentle  pardon  did  with  dames  agree) 

To  her  sad  grief,  \Hiich  swells  in  either  eye, 

And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command, 

And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear, 

To  rushen  forth,  and  with  presumptuous  hand, 

To  stay  harsh  justice  in  his  mid-career. 

On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee,  her  parent  dear  ! 

(Ah  ! too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow  !) 

She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 

And  soon  a flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow, 

And  gives  a loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

But  ah  ! what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may  trace  ? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain  ? 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  % 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain  ? 

The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek  distain  ? 

When  he  in  abject  wise  implores  the  dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain  ; 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 

And  through  the  thatch  his  cries  each  falling  stroke  pro* 
claim. 

* The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 

Attend  and  con  their  tasks  with  mickle  care  ; 


38 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


By  turns,  astonied,  every  twig  survey, 

And  from  their  fellow’s  hateful  wounds  beware, 
Knowing,  I wis,  how  each  the  same  may  share, 

Till  fear  has  taught  them  a performance  meet, 

And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  repair, 

Whence  oft  with  sugar’d  cates  she  doth  them  greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rarc ; now,  certes,  doubly  sweet. 

• 

See  to  their  seats  they  hie  with  merry  glee, 

And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there  ; 

All  but  the  wight  of  flesh  y-gall£d  ; — he 
Abhorreth  bench,  and  stool,  and  fourm,  and  chair ; 
(This  hand  in  mouth  y-fix’d,  that  rends  his  hair;) 

And  eke  with  snubs  profound,  and  heaving  breast, 

Convulsions  intermitting,  doth  declare 

His  grievous  wrong,  his  dame’s  unjust  behest ; 

And  scorns  her  offer’d  love,  and  shuns  to  be  caress’d. 

His  face  besprent  with  liquid  crystal  shines, 

His  blooming  face,  that  seems  a purple  flower, 

Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  declines, 

All  smear’d  and  sullied  by  a vernal  shower. 

0 the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  Power  ! 

All,  all  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 

All,  all  but  she,  regret  this  mournful  hour ; 

Yet  hence  the  }^outh,  and  hence  the  flower,  shall  claim, 
If  so  I deem  aright,  transcending  worth  and  fame. 

Behind  some  door  in  melancholy  thought, 

Mindless  of  food,  he,  dreary  caitiff  ! pines  ; 

Ne  for  his  fellows’  joyance  careth  aught, 

But  to  the  wind  all  merriment  resigns, 

And  deems  it  shame  if  he  to  peace  inclines ; 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS, 


39 


And  many  a sullen  look  askance  is  sent, 

Which  for  his  dame’s  annoyance  he  designs  ; 

And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she’s  bent, 

The  more  doth  he,  perverse,  her  ’haviour  past  resent. 

Ah  me  ! how  much  I fear  lest  pride  it  be  ! 

But  if  that  pride  it  be,  which  thus  inspires, 

Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment  see 
Ye  quench  not,  too,  the  sparks  of  nobler  fires : 

Ah  ! better  far  than  all  the  Muse’s  lyres, 

All  coward  arts,  is  valour’s  generous  heat  ; 

The  firm  fixt  breast,  which  fit  and  right  requires 
Like  Yernon’s  patriot  soul,*  more  justly  great 
Than  craft  that  pimps  for  ill,  or  flowery  false  deceit. 

Yet,  nurs’d,  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits  appear  ! 
Ev’n  now  sagacious  foresight  points  to  show 
A little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here, 

And  there  a chancellor  in  embryo, 

Or  bard  sublime  (if  bard  may  e’er  be  so) 

As  Milton,  Shakspeare,  names  that  ne’er  shall  die, 
Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  earth  so  low, 

Nor,  weeting  how  the  Muse  should  soar  on  high, 
Wisheth,  poor  starvling  elf!  his  paper  kite  may  fly 

And  this  perhaps,  who,  censuring  the  design, 

Low  lays  the  house  which  that  of  cards  doth,  build, 
Shall  Dennis  be.f  if  rigid  fate  incline, 

And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield ; 

And  many  a poet  quit  the  Aonian  field  ; 

And,  sour’d  by  age,  profound  he  shall  appear 

* A.dmiral  Vernon,  tlie  conqueror  of  Porto  Bello, 
t The  famous  snarling  critic. 


40 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


As  lie  who  now,  with  ’sdainful  fury  thrill’d, 

Surveys  mine  work,  and  levels  many  a sneer, 

And  furls  his  wrinkly  front,  and  cries,  “ What  stuff  is  here! 

But  now  Bon  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  skie, 

And  liberty  unbars  her  prison-door, 

And  like  a rushing  torrent  out  they  fly, 

And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han  covered  o’er 
With  boisterous  revel-rout  and  wild  uproar ; 

A thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run ; 

Heaven  shield  their  short-liv’d  pastimes,  I implore  ! 

For  well  may  Freedom,  erst  so  dearly  won, 

Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the  sun. 

Enjoy,  poor  imps  ! enjoy  your  sportive  trade, 

And  cliace  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flowers ; 

For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sodfc  are  laid, 

Then  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles  or  in  ladies’  bowers. 

0 vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  things  ! 

But  most  in  courts,  where  proud  ambition  towers. 
Deluded  wight ! who  weens  fair  peace  can  spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of  king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear ! 

These  rudely  carol  must  incondite  lay  ; 

Those  sauntering  on  the  green  with  jocund  leer, 

Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way  ; 

Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend, 

Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay  ; 

With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to  play; 

Thilk  to  the  huxter’s  savory  cottage  tend, 

In  pastry  kings  and  queens  tli’  allotted  mite  to  spend. 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


41 


Here  as  each  season  yields  a different  store, 

Each  season’s  stores  in  order  ranged  been ; 

Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-covered  o’er, 

Galling  full  sore  th’  unmoney’d  wight  are  seen ; 

And  gooseb’rie,  clad  in  livery  red  and  green  ; 

And  here,  of  lovely  dye,  the  Catherine  pear  ; 

Fine  pear  ! as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I ween  ; 

0 may  no  wight  e’er  pcnnyless  come  there, 

Lest  smit  with  ardent  love  he  pine  with  hopeless  care. 

See  ! — Cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 

With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  ty’d, 

Scattering  like  blooming  maid  their  glances  round, 

With  pamper’d  look  draw  little  ^yes  aside, 

And  must  be  bought,  though  penury  betide. 

The  plum  all  azure,  and  the  nut  all  brown, 

And  here,  each  season,  do  those  cakes  abide, 

Whose  honour’d  names  th’  inventive  city  own, 

Rendering  through  Britain’s  isle  Salopia’s  praises  known. * 

Admired  Salopia  ! that  with  venial  pride 
Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn’s  ambient  wave, 

Fam’d  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  try’d.f 
Her  daughters  lovely,  and  her  striplings  brave  ; 

Ah  ! midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn  his  grave, 

Whose  art  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  display  ; 

A motive  fair  to  Learning’s  imps  he  gave, 

Who  cheerless  o’er  her  darkling  region  stray, 

Till  Reason’s  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on  their  way. 

* Shrewsbury  cakes. 

+ Shrewsbury,  the  capital  of  Shenstone’s  native  county,  was  devoted  to 
the  cause  of  Charles  the  First. 


(Pronin  lrl]ool[ioi|5. 


A LETTER  FROM  HORACE  WALPOLE  TO  1IIS  FRIEND  GEORGE 
MONTAGU. 

George  Montagu,  one  of  Horace  Walpole’s  schoolfellows  at  Eton, 
was  of  the  Halifax  branch  of  the  family  of  that  name.  He  became 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Northampton,  and  Private  Secretary  to  Lord 
North  while  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer. 

Walpole,  who  was  now  at  Cambridge,  in  his  nineteenth  year,  does 
not  write  so  correctly  as  he  did  afterwards ; yet  the  germ  of  his  wit  is 
very  evident  in  this  letter;  also  of  his  foppery  or  effeminacy;  and 
some  may  think,  of  his  alleged  heartlessness.  A wit  he  was  of  the 
first  water ; effeminate  too,  no  doubt,  though  he  prided  himself  on  his 
open-breasted  waistcoats  in  his  old  age,  and  possessed  exquisite  good 
sense  and  discernment,  where  party-feelings  did  not  blind  him.  But 
of  the  charge  of  heartlessness,  his  zeal  and  painstaking  in  behalf  of  a 
hundred  people,  and  his  beautiful  letter  to  his  friend  Conway  in  parti- 
cular, offering,  in  a way  not  to  be  doubted,  to  share  his  fortune  with 
him  (see  Correspondence , vol.  i.  p.  358),  ought  to  acquit  him  by  accla- 
mation. 

The  letter,  here  presented  to  the  reader,  is  (with  some  qualification 
as  to  prettiness  of  manner)  a perfect  exhibition  of  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  go  through  the  mind  of  a romantic  schoolboy.  IIow  good 
is  his  wishing  to  have  had  a kingdom,  “ only  for  the  pleasure  of  being 
driven  from  it,  and  living  disguised  in  an  humble  vale!” 


King's  College,  May  6th,  1736. 


EAR  GEORGE, 


U I agree  with  you  entirely  in  the  pleasure  you  take  in 
talking  over  old  stories,  but  can’t  say  but  I meet  every  day 
with  new  circumstances,  which  will  be  still  more  pleasure 


GROWN  SCHOOLBOYS. 


43 


to  me  to  recollect.  I think  at  our  age  ’t  is  excess  of  joy, 
to  think,  while  we  are  running  over  past  happiness,  that  it  is 
still  in  our  power  to  enjoy  as  great.  Narrations  of  the 
greatest  actions  of  other  people  are  tedious  in  comparison 
of  the  serious  trifles  that  every  man  can  call  to  mind  of  him- 
self while  he  was  learning  those  histories.  Youthful  passa- 
ges of  life  are  the  chippings  of  Pitt’s  diamond,  set  into  lit- 
tle heart-rings  with  mottos  ; the  stone  itself  more  worth,  the 
filings  more  gentle  and  agreeable.  Alexander,  at  the  head 
of  the  world,  never  tasted  the  true  pleasure  that  boys  of  his 
own  age  have  enjoyed  at  the  head  of  a school.  Little  in- 
trigues, little  schemes,  and  policies  engage  their  thoughts  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  that  they  are  laying  the  foundations 
for  their  middle  age  of  life,  the  mimic  republic  they  live  in 
furnishes  materials  of  conversation  for  their  latter  age  ; and 
old  men  cannot  be  said  to  be  children  a second  time  with 
greater  truth  from  any  one  cause,  than  their  living  over 
again  their  childhood  in  imagination.  To  reflect  on  the 
season  when  first  they  felt  the  titillation  of  love,  the  bud- 
ding passions,  and  the  first  dear  object  of  their  wishes  ! how 
unexperienced  they  gave  credit  to  all  the  tales  of  romantic 
loves  ! Dear  George,  were  not  the  playing  fields  at  Eton 
food  for  all  manner  of  flights?  No  old  maid’s  gown,  though 
it  had  been  tormented  into  all  the  fashions  from  King 
James  to  King  George,  ever  underwent  so  many  transfor- 
mations as  those  poor  plains  have  in  my  idea.  At  first  I 
was  contented  with  tending  a visionary  flock,  and  sighing 
some  pastoral  name  to  the  echo  of  the  cascade  under  the 
bridge.  How  happy  should  I have  been  to  have  had  a 
kingdom,  only  for  the  pleasure  of  being  driven  from  it,  and 
living  disguised  in  an  humble  vale  ! As  I got  further  into 
Virgil  and  Clelia,*  I found  myself  transported  from  Area* 

* An  old  French  romance,  founded  on  Roman  history. 


44 


GROWN  SCHOOLBOYS. 


dia  to  the  garden  of  Italy  ; and  saw  Windsor  Castle  in  no 
other  view  than  the  Capitoli  immobile  saxum  * I wish  a 
committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  may  ever  seem  to  be 
the  senate  ; or  a bill  appear  half  so  agreeable  as  a billet-doux. 
You  see  how  deep  you  have  carried  me  into  old  stories  ; I 
write  of  them  with  pleasure,  but  shall  talk  of  them  with 
more  to  you.  I can’t  say  I am  sorry  I was  never  quite  a 
schoolboy : an  expedition  against  bargemen,  or  a match  at 
cricket,  may  be  very  pretty  things  to  recollect  ; but  thank 
my  stars,  I can  remember  things  that  are  very  near  as 
pretty.  The  beginning  of  my  Homan  history  was  spent  in 
the  asylum,f  or  conversing  in  Egeria’s  hallowed  grove  ; not 
in  thumping  and  pummelling  King  Amulius’s  herdsmen. 
I was  sometimes  troubled  with  a rough  creature  or  two 
from  the  plough  ; one  that,  one  should  have  thought,  had 
worked  with  his  head,  as  well  as  his  hands,  they  were  both 
so  callous.  One  of  the  most  agreeable  circumstances  I can 
recollect  is  the  Triumvirate,  composed  of  yourself,  Charles, | 
and  Your  sincere  Friend. 


* “ The  immovable  rock  of  the  Capitol.” 
t The  infant  city  of  Rome,  when  it  was  a refuge  for  offenders. 

X Charles  Montagu,  brother  of  George,  afterwards  a general  in  the 
army.  Another  of  these  schoolboy  coteries  was  called  the  Quadruple  Al- 
liance, and  consisted  of  Walpole,  Gray,  West,  and  Ashton  (afterwards  a 
clergyman).  Walpole’s  schoolfellows  gave  themselves  names  out  of  the 
classics  and  old  romances,  such  as  Tydeus,  Plato,  Oroondates,  and  Alman- 
zor.  Such  things  have  always  been  going  on  in  schools,  and  always  will 
as  long  as  schools  continue  to  be  worth  anything  at  all,  and  cultivate  a 
respect  for  generous  and  exalted  sentiments. 


(Dk  nit  inlituk. 

WRITTEN  BY  POPE  AT  TWELVE  YEARS  OF  AGE. 

Pope  never  wrote  more  agreeable  or  well-tuned  verses  than  this 
interesting  effusion  of  his  boyhood.  Indeed  there  is  an  intimation  of 
sweetness  and  variety  in  the  versification,  which  was  not  borne  out 
afterwards  by  his  boasted  smoothness : nor  can  we  help  thinking,  that 
had  the  author  of  the  Ode  on  Solitude  arisen  in  less  artificial  times,  he 
would  have  turned  out  to  be  a still  finer  poet  than  he  was.  But  the 
reputation  which  he  easily  acquired  for  wit  and  criticism,  the  recent 
fame  of  Dryden,  and  perhaps  even  his  little  warped  and  fragile  person, 
tempted  him  to  accept  such  power  over  his  contemporaries  as  he  could 
soonest  realize. 

It  is  observable  that  Pope  never  repeated  the  form  of  verse  in 
which  this  poem  is  written.  It  might  have  reminded  him  of  a musical 
feeling  he  had  lost.  All  the  little  concluding  lines  of  the  stanzas  have  a 
spirited  yet  touching  modulation,  very  unusual  with  him  afterwards: — 

In  his  own  ground- 
in  winter  fire — 

Quiet  by  day,  <fcc. 

The  closeness  and  straightforwardness  of  the  style  are  remarkable  in  so 
young  a writer,  and  singularly  announce  his  future  conciseness.  The 
reader  smiles  to  think  of  the  unambitious  wish  expressed  in  the  final 
stanza;  yet  it  is  pleasant  to  consider  that  the  youthful  poet  remained 
true  to  his  love  of  the  country  all  his  life ; and  still  more  pleasant,  that 
he  was  rich  enough  to  indulge  it.  The  Ode  was  probably  written  at 
Binfield  in  Windsor  Forest,  when  he  was  a happy  child,  living  with 


46 


ODE  ON  SOLITUDE. 


his  father  ami  mother,  ami  feeling  the  first  delighted  power  of  making 
verses,  in  scenery  fitted  to  inspire  them. 

HAPPY  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 
A few  paternal  acres  bound, 

Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground  : 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  breads 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire, 

Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade. 

In  winter  fire. 

Blest  who  can  unconcern’dly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away, 

In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 

Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ; study  and  ease, 

Together  mix'd  j sweet  recreation  ; 

And  innocence,  which  most  doth  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  j 
Thus  unlamented  let  me  die ; 

Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a stone 
Tell  where  I lie. 


lie  SSfitrnuir  — SI  /nignu'iit. 


BY  DR.  AIKIX. 

If  we  may  judge  of  others’  impressions  by  our  own,  and  have  not 
been  led  to  overrate  the  merit  of  this  Fragment  by  early  associations, 
there  is  nothing  perused  in  boyhood  which  is  of  a nature  to  remain 
longer  in  the  recollection,  or  to  link  itself  more  strongly  with  analo- 
gous ideas.  The  tolling  bell,  the  bloody  stump  of  the  arm,  the  lady 
who  addresses  the  knight  “in  these  words”  (not  related),  and  above 
all,  the  “dreary  moors”  at  the  commencement,  and  the  light  seen  at 
a distance,  have  recurred,  we  think,  oftener  to  memory  in  the  course  of 
our  life  than  any  other  passages  in  books,  with  the  exception  of  some 
in  Gray,  Spenser,  and  the  Arabian  Nights.  We  cannot  read  them  to 
this  day  without  feeling  a sort  of  thrilling  and  desolate  evening  gloom 
fall  upon  our  mind ; nor  can  we  ever  see  a piece  of  moorland,  or  a 
distant  light  at  the  close  of  day,  without  thinking  of  them.  The  finest 
poetry  has  only  added  to  their  impression;  not  displaced  it.  The 
“ woulds  ” that  Sir  Bertrand  crosses,  are  precisely  those  in  which  the 
ear  listens  at  evening  to 


“ Undescribed  sounds, 

That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 

And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors.11 

Dr.  Aikin  was  a writer  from  whom  this  effusion  was  hardly  to  have 
been  looked  for.  He  was  bred  in  a limited  and  somewhat  formal 
school  of  taste,  and  was  no  very  sensitive  critic ; but  a good  deal  of 
enthusiasm  was  repressed  in  him  by  circumstances ; and  he  was  brother 


48 


SIX  BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 


of  an  undoubted  and  fervid  woman  of  genius,  Mrs.  Barbauld.  There 
was  more  in  the  Aikin  family  than  academical  and  sectarian  connec- 
tions suffered  to  come  out  of  it. 


IR  BERTRAND  turned  his  steed  towards  the  woulds, 


hoping  to  cross  these  dreary  moors  before  the  curfew. 
But  ere  he  had  proceeded  half  his  journey,  he  was  bewil- 
dered by  the  different  tracks ; and  not  being  able,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach,  to  espy  any  object  but  the  brown  heath 
surrounding  him,  he  was  at  length  quite  uncertain  which 
way  he  should  direct  his  course.  Night  overtook  him  in 
this  situation.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  when  the  moon 
gives  a faint  glimmering  of  light  through  the  thick  black 
clouds  of  a louring  sky.  Now  and  then  she  emerged  in  full 
splendour  from  her  veil,  and  then  instantly  retired  behind 
it,  having  just  served  to  give  the  forlorn  Sir  Bertrand  a wide 
extended  prospect  over  the  desolate  waste.  Hope  and 
native  courage  awhile  urged  him  to  push  forwards,  but  at 
length  the  increasing  darkness  and  fatigue  of  body  and 
mind  overcame  him  ; he  dreaded  moving  from  the  ground 
he  stood  on,  for  fear  of  unknown  pits  and  bogs  ; and  alight 
ing  from  his  horse  in  despair,  he  threw  himself  on  the 
ground.  He  had  not  long  continued  in  that  posture  when 
the  sullen  toll  of  a distant  bell  struck  his  ears — he  started 
up,  and  turning  towards  the  sound,  discerned  a dim  twink 
ling  light.  Instantly  he  seized  his  horse’s  bridle,  and  with 
cautious  steps  advanced  towards  it.  After  a painful  march 
he  was  stopt  by  a moated  ditch  surrounding  the  place  from 
whence  the  light  proceeded ; and  by  a momentary  glimpse 
of  moon-light  he  had  a full  view  of  a large  antique  mansion, 
with  turrets  at  the  corners,  and  an  ample  porch  in  the 
centre.  The  injuries  of  time  were  strongly  marked  on 
everything  about  it.  The  roof  in  various  places  was  fallen 
in,  the  battlements  were  half  demolished,  and  the  windows 


SIR  BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 


49 


broken  and  dismantled.  A draw-bridge,  with  a ruinous 
gate-way  at  each  end,  led  to  the  court  before  the  building. 
He  entered  ; and  instantly  the  light,  which  proceeded  from 
a window  in  one  of  the  turrets,  glided  along  and  vanished  ; 
at  the  same  moment  the  moon  sunk  beneath  a black  cloud, 
and  the  night  was  darker  than  ever.  All  was  silent. — 
Sir  Bertrand  fastened  his  steed  under  a shed,  and  approach- 
ing the  house,  traversed  its  whole  front  with  light  and  slow 
footsteps. — All  was  still  as  death. — He  looked  in  at  the 
lower  windows,  but  could  not  distinguish  a single  object 
through  the  impenetrable  gloom.  After  a short  parley  with 
himself,  he  entered  the  porch,  and  seizing  a massy  iron 
knocker  at  the  gate,  lifted  it  up,  and,  hesitating,  at  length 
struck  a loud  stroke. — The  noise  resounded  through  the 
whole  mansion  with  hollow  echoes. — All  was  still  again — 
he  repeated  the  strokes  more  boldly  and  loudly — another 
interval  ensued — a third  time  he  knocked,  and  a third  time 
all  was  still.  He  then  fell  back,  to  some  distance,  that  he 
might  discern  whether  any  light  could  be  seen  in  the  whole 
front.  It  again  appeared  in  the  same  place,  and  quickly 
glided  away  as  before — at  the  same  instant  a deep  sullen 
toll  sounded  from  the  turret.  Sir  Bertrand’s  heart  made  a 
fearful  stop — he  was  a while  motionless ; then  terror  im- 
pelled him  to  make  some  hasty  steps  towards  his  steed — 
but  shame  stopt  his  flight ; and  urged  by  honour  and  a 
resistless  desire  of  finishing  the  adventure,  he  returned  to 
the  porch ; and  working  up  his  soul  to  a full  steadiness  of 
resolution,  he  drew  forth  his  sword  with  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  lifted  up  the  latch  of  the  gate.  The  heavy  door, 
creaking  upon  its  hinges,  reluctantly  yielded  to  his  hand — 
he  applied  his  shoulder  to  it,  and  forced  it  open — he  quitted 
it,  and  stepped  forward — the  door  instantly  shut  with  a 
'hundering  clap.  Sir  Bertrand’s  blood  was  chilled — he 
3 


50 


SI R BERTRAM).— A FRAGMENT. 


turned  back  to  find  the  door,  and  it  was  long  ere  his  trem- 
bling hands  could  seize  it : but  his  utmost  strength  could 
not  open  it  again.  After  several  ineffectual  attempts,  he 
looked  behind  him,  and  beheld,  across  a hall,  upon  a large 
staircase,  a pale  bluish  flame,  which  cast  a dismal  gleam  of 
light  around.  He  again  summoned  forth  his  courage,  and 
advanced  towards  it.  It  retired.  He  came  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  after  a moment’s  deliberation  ascended.  He 
went  slowly  up,  the  flame  retiring  before  him,  till  he  came 
to  a wTide  gallery.  The  flame  proceeded  along  it,  and  he 
followed  in  silent  horror,  treading  lightly,  for  the  echoes  of 
his  footsteps  startled  him.  It  led  him  to  the  foot  of  another 
staircase,  and  then  vanished.  At  the  same  instant  another 
toll  sounded  from  the  turret — Sir  Bertrand  felt  it  strike 
upon  his  heart.  He  was  now  in  total  darkness,  and  with 
his  arms  extended,  began  to  ascend  the  second  staircase.  A 
dead  cold  hand  met  his  left  hand,  and  firmly  grasped  it, 
drawing  him  forcibly  forwards — he  endeavored  to  disengage 
himself,  but  could  not — he  made  a furious  blow  with  his 
sword,  and  instantly  a loud  shriek  pierced  his  ears,  and  the 
dead  hand  was  left  powerless  with  his — He  dropt  it,  and 
rushed  forward  with  a desperate  valour.  The  stairs  were 
narrow  and  winding,  and  interrupted  by  frequent  breaches, 
and  loose  fragments  of  stone.  The  staircase  grew  narrower 
and  narrower,  and  at  length  terminated  in  a low  iron  grate. 
Sir  Bertrand  pushed  it  open — it  led  to  an  intricate  winding 
passage,  just  large  enough  to  admit  a person  upon  his  hands 
and  knees.  A faint  glimmering  of  light  served  to  show  the 
nature  of  the  place.  Sir  Bertrand  entered.  A deep  hollow 
groan  resounded  from  a distance  through  the  vault.  Ho 
went  forwards,  and  proceeding  beyond  the  first  turning,  he 
discerned  the  same  blue  flame  which  had  before  conducted 
him.  He  followed  it.  The  vault  at  length  suddenly  opened 


SIR  BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 


51 


into  a lofty  gallery,  in  the  midst  of  which  a figure  appeared^ 
completely  armed,  thrusting  forwards  the  bloody  stump  of 
an  arm  with  a terrible  frown  and  menacing  gesture,  and 
brandishing  a sword  in  his  hand.  Sir  Bertrand  undaunt- 
edly sprung  forwards,  and  aiming  a fierce  blow  at  the  figure^ 
it  instantly  vanished,  letting  fall  a massy  iron  key.  The 
flame  now  rested  upon  a pair  of  ample  folding-doors  at  the 
end  of  the  gallery.  Sir  Bertrand  went  up  to  it,  and  applied 
the  key  to  a brazen  lock — with  difficulty  he  turned  the  bolt 
— instantly  the  doors  flew  open,  and  discovered  a large 
apartment,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a coffin  rested  upon  a 
bier,  with  a taper  burning  upon  each  side  of  it.  Along  the 
room  on  both  sides  were  gigantic  statues  of  black  marble, 
attired  in  the  Moorish  habit,  and  holding  enormous  sabres 
in  their  right  hands.  Each  of  them  reared  his  arm,  and 
advanced  one  leg  forwards,  as  the  knight  entered ; at  the 
same  moment  the  lid  of  the  coffin  flew  open,  and  the  bell 
tolled.  The  flame  still  glided  forwards,  and  Sir  Bertrand 
resolutely  followed,  till  he  arrived  within  six  paces  of  the 
coffin.  Suddenly,  a lady  in  a shroud  and  black  veil  rose  up 
in  it,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  towards  him  ; at  the  same 
time  the  statues  clashed  their  sabres  and  advanced.  Sir 
Bertrand  flew  to  the  lady  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms — she 
threw  up  her  veil  and  kissed  his  lips ; and  instantly  the 
whole  building  shook  as  with  an  earthquake,  and  fell  asun- 
der with  a horrible  crash.  Sir  Bertrand  was  thrown  into  a 
sudden  trance,  and  on  recovering,  found  himself  seated  on  a 
velvet  sofa,  in  the  most  magnificent  room  he  had  ever  seen, 
lighted  with  innumerable  tapers,  in  lustres  of  pure  crystal. 
A sumptuous  banquet  was  set  in  the  middle.  The  doors 
opening  to  soft  music,  a lady  of  incomparable  beauty,  attired 
with  amazing  splendour,  entered,  surrounded  by  a troop  of 
gay  nymphs  more  fair  than  the  Graces.  She  advanced  to 


52 


SIR  BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 


t-lie  knight,  and  falling  on  her  knees  thanked  him  as  her 
deliverer.  The  nymphs  placed  a garland  of  laurel  upon  his 
head,  and  the  lady  led  him  by  the  hand  to  the  banquet,  and 
sat  beside  him.  The  nymphs  placed  themselves  at  the 
table,  and  a numerous  train  of  servants  entering,  served  up 
the  feast,  delicious  music  playing  all  the  time.  Sir  Ber- 
trand could  not  speak  for  astonishment — he  could  only 
return  their  honours  by  courteous  looks  and  gestures.  After 
the  banquet  was  finished,  all  retired  but  the  lady,  who 
leading  back  the  knight  to  the  sofa,  addressed  him  in  these 
words : 


Enlnitsmt  tfmr. 


THE  FIVE  POINTS  IN  HIS  HISTORY. 


These  are  Crusoe’s  loneliness,  his  contrivances  how  to  live,  his  discov- 
ery of  the  footmark  on  the  sea-shore,  his  first  sight  of  the  savages,  and 
his  obtainment  of  a companion  and  servant  in  Frida)',  The  second, 
though  the  least  surprising,  is  the  one  most  habitually  felt  by  the 
reader  ; the  one  he  oftenest  thinks  of.  It  is  indeed  the  main  subject  of 
the  book.  But,  as  its  interest  spreads  over  the  greater  part  of  it,  and 
could  only  be  duly  represented  by  copious  extracts  (minuteness  of  detail 
being  necessary  to  do  justice  to  its  ingenuity  and  perseverance)  it  would 
have  occupied  too  large  a share  of  these  pages.  The  lesser  quantity 
and  more  startling  quality  of  the  other  points  render  them  obviously 
fittest  for  selection.  The  loneliness,  which  is  in  itself  a one-nessT  can 
be  well  enough  represented  by  one  impressive  extract ; the  footmark 
is  essentially  one  (never  was  there  a finer  unique) ; the  first  sight  of 
the  savages  is  of  the  same  brief  and  independent  order  of  interest ; and 
two  “ man  Fridays  ” are  not  in  the  regions  of  possibility,  Peter  Wil- 
kins’s “man  Friday  ” was  obliged  to  be  turned  into  a woman,  and 
Philip  Quarll’s  into  a monkey. 

Robinson  Crusoe  is  understood  to  be  founded  on  the  real  history  of 
Alexander  Selkirk,  a summary  of  which,  charmingly  written,  was 
given  to  the  public  by  Steele.  The  greatest  genius  might  have  been 
proud  to  paint  a picture  after  that  sketch.  Yet  we  are  not  sure  that 
Selkirk’s  adventure  was  not  an  injury,  instead  of  a benefit  to  De  Foe. 
A benefit  it  undoubtedly  was,  to  him  and  to  all  of  us,  if  it  was  required 
in  order  to  put  the  thought  into  De  Foe’s  head  ; but  what  we  mean  is,  that 
the  world  would  probably  have  had  the  fiction,  whether  the  fact  had 


54 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


existed  or  not.  Desert  islands  and  cast-away  mariners  existed  before 
Selkirk : children  have  played  at  hermits  and  house-building,  even 
before  they  read  Robinson  Crusoe  ; and  the  whole  inimitable  romance 
would  have  required  but  a glance  of  Do  Foe’s  eye  upon  a child  at 
play,  or  at  a page  in  an  old  book  of  voyages,  or  even  at  his  own  rest- 
less and  isolated  thoughts.  This  is  a conjecture,  however,  impossible 
to  prove ; and  we  only  throw  it  out  in  justice  to  an  original  genius. 
After  all,  it  would  make  little  difference;  for  Selkirk  was  not  Crusoe, 
nor  did  lie  see  the  ghost  of  a human  footstep,  nor  obtain  a man  Friday. 
Hie  inhabitant  of  the  island  avas  De  Foe  himself. 

May  we  add,  nevertheless,  that  when  De  Foe  thought  himself  most 
himself,  he  was  least  clever  and  least  pleasant?  We  were  not  so  dis- 
appointed with  the  Second  Part  of  Crusoe  as  we  expected  to  be,  whea 
we  read  the  book  over  again  the  other  day,  but  still  it  is  very  infe- 
rior ; not  wanted ; not  even  of  a piece ; for  Crusoe’s  isolation  is  the 
charm.  Who  cares,  after  that,  for  a common  settlement?  We  dread 
even  the  remaining  of  the  savages  on  the  island ; not  for  fear  they 
should  eat  Robinson,  but  lest  they  should  become  friends  with  him, 
and  make  up  a dinner-party.  Man  Friday  is  quite  enough.  lie  is 
single  and  subordinate,  and  does  but  administer  to  the  superiority  of 
his  master. 

De  Foe  did  better  with  one  person  than  with  many.  He  was  a 
very  honest  man,  and  very  good  at  conceiving  matters  of  tact ; but  it 
is  curious  to  see  how  impossible  he  finds  it,  even  in  a fiction,  to  present 
any  thing  to  his  imagination  which  does  not  come  palpably  home  to  a 
man’s  worldly  or  other-worldly  interest  and  importance  ; and  how 
fond  he  is,  whether  alone  or  in  company,  of  being  all  in  all ; of  play- 
ing the  “ monarch  of  all  he  surveys,”  and  dictating  people’s  religion 
and  politics  to  them  the  moment  he  catches  a listener.  He  was  the 
prose  half  of  as  inventive  a genius  as  ever  existed : and  his  footstep  on 
the  sea-shore  has  left  its  mark  within  the  borders  of  the  greatest  poetry ; 
but  it  originated,  so  to  speak,  in  the  same  intense  spirit  of  self-reference. 
It  was  the  one  isolated  Robinson  Crusoe  reflected  by  some  one  other 
tremendous  individual,  come  to  contest  with  him  his  safety  and  his  in- 
dependence. The  abstract  idea  of  a multitude  followed  it ; but  what 
would  their  presence  have  been  in  comparison  ? What  would  a thou- 
sand footsteps  have  been  ? The  face  of  things  would  have  been  changed 
at  once,  and  Crusoe’s  face  have  no  longer  matched  it.  All  the  savages 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


55 


afterwards  never  tread  out  that  footmark  : nor  does  Crusoe  allow  them 
to  remain,  and  run  the  chance  of  it. 

It  is  observable,  that  De  Foe  never  invented  a hero  to  write  about 
greater  than  himself ; while,  at  the  same  time,  he  willingly  recorded 
such  as  were  inferior.  No  rogue  or  vagabond  came  amiss  to  him,  any 
more  than  a mariner  or  a merchant.  And  it  is  curious  to  consider  how 
heartily  such  a minute  dealer  in  matter  of  fact  could  set  about  telling 
a lie  ; — at  least  what  a deliberate  and  successful  one  he  told  about  the 
Ghost  of  Mrs.  Veal ; a long-credited  fiction  which  he  invented  at  the 
request  of  a bookseller,  in  order  to  sell  a devout  publication.  His  His- 
tory of  the  Plague  was  long  considered  equally  true,  and  reaped  a like 
success.  But  the  fact  is,  it  is  a mistake  to  suppose  De  Foe  a lover  of 
truth  in  any  other  sense  than  that  of  a workman’s  love  for  his  tools,  or 
for  any  other  purpose  than  that  of  a masterly  use  of  it,  and  a conscious- 
ness of  the  mastery.  We  do  not  mean  to  dispute  his  veracity  between 
man  and  man  : though  his  peculiar  genius  may  not  have  been  without 
its  recommendation  of  him  to  that  secret  government  agency  in  which 
he  was  at  one  time  employed  under  his  hero,  William  the  Third.  But. 
the  singularly  material  and  mechanical  nature  of  that  genius,  great  as 
it  was,  while  it  hindered  him  from  missing  no  impressions  which  could 
be  made  personally  on  himself  as  a creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  kept 
him  uri  embarrassed  with  any  of  the  more  perplexing  truths  suggessted 
by  too  much  thought  and  by  imaginations  poetical ; and  hence  it  :s, 
that  defect  itself  conspired  to  perfect  and  keep  clear  his  astonishing 
impress  of  matter  of  fact,  and  render  him  an  object  of  admiration, 
great,  but  not  of  an  exalted  kind.  De  Foe  was  in  one  respect  as 
unvulgar  a man  as  can  be  conceived  ; nobody  but  Swift  could  have  sur- 
passed him  in  such  a work  as  Robinson  Crusoe  ; yet  we  cannot  conceal 
from  ourselves,  that  something  vulgar  adheres  to  our  idea  of  the  author 
of  Moll  Flanders,  the  Complete  English  Tradesman , and  even  of  Robin- 
son himself.  He  has  no  music,  no  thorough  style,  no  accomplishments, 
no  love ; but  he  can  make  wonderful  shift  without  them  all ; was  great 
in  the  company  of  man  Friday ; and  he  has  rendered  his  shipwrecked 
solitary  immortal. 


56 


CRUSOE'S  MEDITATIONS 


crusoe’s  meditations  and  mode  of  life. 


evil. 

I AM  cast  upon  an  horrible 
desolate  island : void  of 
all  hope  of  recovery. 

I am  singled  out  and  sep- 
arated as  it  were  from  the 
world,  to  be  miserable. 


I am  divided  from  man- 
kind, a solitary,  one  banish- 
ed from  human  society. 

I have  no  clothes  to  cover 

me. 

I am  without  any  defence 
or  means  to  resist  any  vio- 
lence of  man  or  beast. 


I have  no  soul  to  speak 
to  or  relieve  me. 


GOOD. 

But  I am  alive,  and  not 
drowned,  as  all  my  ship’s 
company  was. 

But  I am  singled  out  too 
from  all  the  ship’s  crew,  to 
be  spared  from  death ; and 
He  that  miraculously  saved 
me  from  death,  can  deliver 
me  from  this  condition. 

But  I am  not  starved  and 
perishing  on  a barren  place, 
affording  no  sustenance. 

But  I am  in  an  hot  cli- 
mate, where,  if  I had  clothes, 
I could  hardly  w’ear  them. 

But  I am  cast  upon  an 
island  where  I see  no  wild 
beasts  to  hurt  me,  as  I saw 
on  the  coast  of  Africa : and 
what  if  I had  been  ship- 
wrecked there  ? 

But  God  wonderfully  sent 
the  ship  in,  near  enough  to 
the  shore,  that  I have  gotten 
out  so  many  necessary  things, 
as  will  either  supply  my  wants 
or  enable  me  to  supply  my- 
self, even  as  long  as  I live. 

testimony  that 


Upon  the  whole,  here  was  an  undoubted 


AND  MODE  OF  LIFE. 


57 


there  was  scarce  any  condition  in  the  world  so  miserable, 
but  there  was  something  negative,  or  something  positive,  to 
be  thankful  in  it ; and  let  this  stand  as  a direction  from  the 
experience  of  the  most  miserable  of  all  conditions  in  this 
world,  that  we  may  always  find  in  it  something  to  comfort 
ourselves  from,  and  to  set,  in  the  description  of  good  and 
evil,  on  the  credit  side  of  the  account. 

You  are  to  understand  that  I now  had,  as  I may  call  it, 
two  plantations  in  the  island : one,  my  little  fortification  or 
tent,  with  the  wall  about  it,  under  the  rock,  with  the  cave 
behind  me,  which  by  this  time  I had  enlarged  into  several 
apartments  or  caves,  one  within  another.  One  of  these, 
which  was  the  driest  and  largest,  and  had  a door  out  beyond 
my  wall  or  fortification,  that  is  to  say,  beyond  where  my  wall 
joined  to  the  rock,  was  all  filled  up  with  the  large  earthen 
pots,  of  which  I have  given  an  account,  and  with  fourteen  or 
fifteen  great  baskets,  which  would  hold  five  or  six  bushels 
each,  where  I laid  up  my  stores  of  provision,  especially  my 
corn ; some  in  the  ear,  cut  off  short  from  the  straw,  and  the 
other  rubbed  out  with  my  hand. 

As  for  my  wall,  made,  as  before,  with  long  stakes  or 
piles,  those  piles  grew  all  like  trees,  and  were  by  this  time 
grown  so  big,  and  spread  so  very  much,  that  there  was  not 
the  least  appearance,  to  any  one’s  view,  of  any  habitation 
behind  them. 

Near  this  dwelling  of  mine,  but  a little  farther  within 
the  land,  and  upon  lower  ground,  lay  my  two  pieces  of  corn- 
ground  ; which  I kept  duly  cultivated  and  sowed,  and  which 
duly  yielded  me  their  harvest  in  its  season  ; and  whenever 
I had  occasion  for  more  corn,  I had  more  land  adjoining  as 
fit  as  that. 

Besides  this,  I had  my  country  seat,  and  I had  now  a 
tolerable  plantation  there  also ; for  first,  I had  my  little 
3* 


58  CRUSOE'S  MEDITATIONS  AND  MODE  OF  LIFE. 


bower,  as  I called  it,  which  I kept  in  repair ; that  is  to  say, 
I kept  the  hedge  which  circled  it  in  constantly  fitted  up  to 
its  usual  height,  the  ladder  standing  always  in  the  inside ; 
I kept  the  trees,  which  at  first  were  no  more  than  my  stakes, 
Nut  were  now  grown  very  firm  and  tall ; I kept  them  always 
jo  cut,  that  they  might  spread  and  grow  thick  and  wild,  and 
make  the  more  agreeable  shade,  which  they  did  effectually 
to  my  mind.  In  the  middle  of  this  I had  my  tent  always 
standing,  being  a piece  of  a sail  spread  over  poles  setup  for 
that  purpose,  and  which  never  wanted  any  repair  or  renew- 
ing ; and  under  this  I had  made  me  a squab  or  couch,  with 
the  skins  of  the  creatures  I had  killed,  and  with  other  soft 
things,  and  a blanket  laid  on  them,  such  as  belonged  to  our 
sea-bedding,  which  I had  saved,  and  a great  watch-coat  to 
cover  me ; and  here,  whenever  I had  occasion  to  be  absent 
from  my  chief  seat,  I took  up  my  country  habitation. 

Adjoining  to  this  I had  my  inclosures  for  my  cattle,  that 
is  to  say,  my  goats ; and  as  I had  taken  an  inconceivable 
deal  of  pains  to  fence  and  inclose  this  ground,  I was  so  un- 
easy to  see  it  kept  entire,  lest  the  goats  should  break  through, 
that  I never  left  off,  till  with  infinite  labour  I had  stuck  the 
outside  of  the  hedge  so  full  of  small  stakes,  and  so  near  to 
one  another,  that  it  was  rather  a pale  than  a hedge,  and 
there  was  scarce  room  to  put  a hand  through  between  them  ; 
which,  afterwards,  when  those  stakes  grew,  as  they  all  did 
in  the  next  rainy  season,  made  the  inclosure  strong,  like  a 
wall ; indeed  stronger  than  any  wall. 

This  will  testify  for  me  that  I was  not  idle,  and  that  I 
spared  no  pains  to  bring  to  pass  whatever  appeared  neces- 
sary for  my  comfortable  support : for  I considered,  the  keep- 
ing up  a breed  of  tame  creatures  thus  at  my  hand  would  be 
a living  magazine  of  flesh,  milk,  butter,  and  cheese  for  me 
as  long  as  I lived  in  the  place,  if  it  were  to  be  forty  years; 


CRUSOE  FINDS  THE  FEINT  OF  A FOOT. 


59 


and  that  keeping  them  in  my  reach  depended  entirely  upon 
my  perfecting  my  inclosures  to  such  a degree,  that  I might 
be  sure  of  keeping  them  together  : which,  by  this  method, 
indeed,  I so  effectually  secured,  that  when  these  little  stakes 
began  to  grow,  I had  planted  them  so  very  thick,  I was 
forced  to  pull  some  of  them  up  again. 

In  this  place  also  I had  my  grapes  growing,  which  J 
principally  depended  on  for  my  winter  store  of  raisins,  and 
which  I never  failed  to  preserve  very  carefully,  as  the  best 
and  most  agreeable  dainty  of  my  whole  diet : and,  indeed, 
they  were  not  agreeable  only,  but  physical,  wholesome,  nour- 
ishing, and  refreshing  to  the  last  degree. 

As  this  was  also  about  half  way  between  my  other  habi- 
tation and  the  place  where  I had  laid  up  my  boat,  I gene- 
rally staid  and  lay  here  in  my  wTay  thither;  for  I used  fre- 
quently to  visit  my  boat,  and  I kept  all  things  about  or 
belonging  to  her  in  very  good  order  : sometimes  I went  out 
in  her  to  divert  myself,  but  no  nlore  hazardous  voyages  would 
I go,  nor  scarce  ever  above  a stone’s  cast  or  two  from  the 
shore,  I was  so  apprehensive  of  being  hurried  out  of  my 
knowledge  again  by  the  currents  or  winds,  or  any  other 
accident.  But  now  I come  to  a new  scene  of  my  life. 


HE  FINDS  THE  PRINT  OF  A MAN’S  FOOT  ON  THE  SEA- SHORE. 

It  happened  one  day  about  noon,  going  towards  my 
boat,  I was  exceedingly  surprised  with  the  print  of  a man’s 
naked  foot  on  the  shore,  which  was  very  plain  to  be  seen 
in  the  sand : 1 stood  like  one  thunderstruck,  or  as  if  I had 
seen  an  apparition ; I listened,  I looked  round  me,  I could 
hear  nothing,  nor  see  anything ; I went  up  to  a rising 
ground  to  look  farther  ; I went  up  the  shore,  and  down  the 


GO 


CRUSOE  FIRES  THE  PRINT  OF 


shore,  but  it  was  all  one  ; I could  see  no  other  impression 
but  that  one.  I went  to  it  again  to  see  if  there  were  any 
more,  and  to  observe  if  it  might  not  be  my  fancy  ; Jbut  there 
was  no  room  for  that,  for  there  was  exactly  the  very  print 
of  a foot,  toes,  heel,  and  every  part  of  a foot ; how  it  came 
thither  I knew  not,  nor  could  in  the  least  imagine.  But 
after  innumerable  fluttering  thoughts,  like  a man  perfectly 
confused  and  out  of  myself,  I came  home  to  my  fortifica- 
tion, not  feeling,  as  we  say,  the  ground  I went  on,  but 
terrified  to  the  last  degree,  looking  behind  me  at  every  two 
or  three  steps,  mistaking  every  bush  and  tree,  and  fancying 
every  stump  at  a distance  to  be  a man  ; nor  is  it  possible 
to  describe  how  many  various  shapes  an  affrighted  imagina- 
tion represented  things  to  me  in  ; how  many  wild  ideas 
were  formed  every  moment  in  my  fancy,  and  what  strange 
unaccountable  whimsies  came  into  my  thoughts  by  the  way. 

When  I came  to  my  castle,  for  so  I think  I called  it 
ever  after  this,  I fled  into  it  like  one  pursued  ; whether  I 
went  over  by  the  ladder,  as  first  contrived,  or  went  in  at 
the  hole  in  the  rock,  which  I called  a door,  I cannot  re- 
member : for  never  frighted  hare  fled  to  cover,  or  fox  to 
earth,  with  more  terror  of  mind  than  I to  this  retreat. 

I had  no  sleep  that  night  ; the  farther  I was  from  the 
occasion  of  my  fright,  the  greater  my  apprehensions  were  ; 
which  is  something  contrary  to  the  nature  of  such  things, 
and  especially  to  the  usual  practice  of  all  creatures  in  fear. 
But  I was  so  embarrassed  with  my  own  frightful  ideas  of 
the  thing,  that  I formed  nothing  but  dismal  imaginations 
to  myself,  even  though  I was  now  a great  way  off  it. 
Sometimes  I fancied  it  must  be  the  devil ; and  reason  join- 
ed with  me  upon  this  supposition ; for  how  should  any  other 
thing  in  human  shape  come  into  the  place  ? Where  was 
the  vessel  that  brought  them  ? What  marks  were  there  of 


A MAN'S  FOOT  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 


61 


any  other  footsteps  ? and  how  was  it  possible  a man  should 
come  there  ? But  then  to  think  that  Satan  should  take 
humaii  shape  upon  him  in  such  a place,  where  there  could 
be  no  manner  of  occasion  for  it,  but  to  leave  the  print  of 
his  foot  behind  him,  and  that  even  for  no  purpose  too  (for 
he  could  not  be  sure  I should  see  it) ; this  was  an  amaze- 
ment the  other  way.  I considered  that  the  devil  might 
have  found  out  abundance  of  other  ways  to  have  terrified 
me,  than  this  of  the  single  print  of  a foot ; that  as  I lived 
quite  on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  he  would  never  have 
been  so  simple  to  leave  a mark  in  a place  where  it  was  ten 
thousand  to  one  whether  I should  ever  see  it  or  not ; and 
in  the  sand  too,  which  the  first  surge  of  the  sea  upon  an 
high  wind  would  have  defaced  entirely.  All  this  seemed 
inconsistent  with  the  thing  itself,  and  with  all  notions  we 
usually  entertain  of  the  subtlety  of  the  devil. 

Abundance  of  such  things  as  these  assisted  to  argue  me 
out  of  all  apprehensions  of  its 'being  the  devil;  and  I pre- 
sently concluded  then,  that  it  must  be  some  more  danger- 
ous creature,  viz.,  that  it  must  be  some  of  the  savages  of  the 
mainland  over  against  me,  who  had  wandered  out  to  sea  in 
their  canoes ; and,  either  driven  by  the  currents,  or  by  con- 
trary winds,  had  made  the  island  ; and  had  been  on  shore, 
but  were  gone  away  again  to  sea,  being  as  loath,  perhaps, 
to  have  staid  in  this  desolate  island,  as  I would  have  been 
to  have  had  them. 

While  these  reflections  were  rolling  upon  my  mind,  I 
was  very  thankful  in  my  thought,  that  I was  so  happy  as 
not  to  be  thereabouts  at  that  time,  or  that  they  did  not  see 
my  boat,  by  which  they  would  have  concluded  that  some 
inhabitants  had  been  in  the  place,  and,  perhaps,  have  search- 
ed further  for  me.  Then  terrible  thoughts  racked  my  ima- 
ginations about  their  having  found  my  boat,  and  that  there 


02  CRUSOE  FINDS  THE  FEINT  OF  A FOOT 


were  people  here ; and  that,  if  so,  I should  certainly  have 
them  come  again  in  greater  numbers,  and  devour  me  ; that, 
if  it  should  happen  so  that  they  should  not  find  me,  yet 
they  would  find  my  inclosure,  destroy  all  my  corn,  carry 
away  all  my  stock  of  tame  goats,  and  I should  perish  at  last 
for  mere  want. 

Thus  my  fear  banished  all  my  religious  hope.  All  that 
former  confidence  in  God,  which  was  founded  upon  such 
wonderful  experience,  as  I had  had  of  his  goodness,  now 
vanished ; as  if  he  that  had  fed  me  by  a miracle  hitherto, 
could  not  preserve  by  his  power  the  provision  which  he  had 
made  for  me  by  his  goodness.  I reproached  myself  with 
my  easiness,  that  would  not  sow  any  more  corn  one  year 
than  would  just  serve  me  until  the  next  season,  as  if  no 
accident  could  intervene  to  prevent  my  enjoying  the  crop 
that  was  upon  the  ground  ; and  this  I thought  so  just  a re- 
proof, that  I resolved  for  the  future  to  have  two  or  three 
years’  corn  beforehand,  so  that  whatever  might  come,  I 
might  not  perish  for  want  of  bread. 

How  strange  a chequer-work  of  Providence  is  the  life  of 
man  ! and  by  what  secret  differing  springs  are  the  affections 
hurried  about,  as  differing  circumstances  present  ! To-day 
we  love  what  to-morrow  we  hate  ; to-day  we  seek  what  to- 
morrow we  shun  ; to-day  we  desire  what  to-morrow  we  fear, 
nay,  even  tremble  at  the  apprehensions  of.  This  was  ex- 
emplified in  me  at  this  time  in  the  most  lively  manner 
imaginable ; for  I,  whose  only  affliction  was,  that  I seemed 
banished  from  human  society ; that  I was  alone,  circum- 
scribed by  the  boundless  ocean,  cut  off  from  mankind,  and 
condemned  to  what  I call  a silent  life  ; that  I was  as  one 
whom  Heaven  thought  not  worthy  to  be  numbered  among 
the  living,  or  to  appear  among  the  rest  of  his  creatures;  that 
to  have  seen  one  of  my  own  species  would  have  seemed  to 


HE  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND. 


63 


me  a raising  me  from  death  to  life,  and  the  greatest  bless- 
ing that  Heaven  itself,  next  to  the  supreme  blessing  of 
Salvation,  could  bestow ; I say,  that  I should  now  tremble 
at  the  very  apprehension  of  seeing  a man,  and  was  ready 
to  sink  into  the  ground  at  but  the  shadow  or  silent  appear- 
ance of  a man’s  having  set  his  foot  on  the  island. 


HE  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND,  AND  OBTAINS  A SERVANT. 

In  the  middle  of  these  cogitations,  apprehensions,  and 
reflections,  it  came  into  my  thoughts  one  day,  that  all  this 
might  be  a mere  chimera  of  my  own,  and  that  this  foot  might 
be  the  print  of  my  own  foot,  when  I came  on  shore  from 
my  boat.  This  cheered  me  up  a little  too,  and  I began  to 
persuade  myself  it  was  all  a delusion  ; that  it  was  nothing 
else  but  my  own  foot ; and  why  might  not  I come  that  way 
from  the  boat,  as  well  as  I was  going  that  way  to  the  boat  ? 
Again  I considered  also,  that  I' could  by  no  means  tell  for 
certain  where  I had  trod,  and  where  I had  not ; and  that  if 
at  last  this  was  only  the  print  of  my  own  foot,  I had  played 
the  part  of  those  fools  who  strive  to  make  stories  of  spectres 
and  apparitions,  and  then  are  themselves  frighted  at  them 
more  than  anybody  else. 

Now  I began  to  take  courage,  and  to  peep  abroad  again: 
for  I had  not  stirred  out  of  my  castle  for  three  days  and 
nights,  so  that  I began  to  starve  for  provision  ; for  I had 
little  or  nothing  within  doors,  but  some  barley-cakes  and 
water.  Then  I knew  that  my  goats  wanted  to  be  milked, 
too,  which  usually  was  my  evening  diversion ; and  the  poor 
creatures  were  in  great  pain  and  inconvenience  for  want  of 
it;  and  indeed  it  almost  spoiled  some  of  them,  and  almost 
diled  up  their  milk. 

Heartening  myself  therefore  with  the  belief  that  this 


61 


HE  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND , 


was  nothing  but  the  print  of  one  of  my  own  feet  (and  so  1 
might  be  truly  said  to  start  at  my  own  shadow),  I began  to 
go  abroad  again,  and  went  to  my  country  house  to  milk  my 
flock.  But  to  see  with  what  fear  I wTent  forward,  how  often 
I looked  behind  me,  how  I was  ready  every  now  and  then 
to  lay  down  my  basket  and  run  for  my  life,  it  would  have 
made  any  one  have  thought  I was  haunted  with  an  evil 
conscience,  or  that  I had  been  lately  most  terribly  frighted  ; 
and  so  indeed  I had. 

However,  as  I went  down  thus  two  or  three  days,  and 
having  seen  nothing,  I began  to  be  a little  bolder,  and  to 
think  there  was  really  nothing  in  it  but  my  own  imagina- 
tion ; but  I could  not  persuade  myself  fully  of  this,  till  I 
should  go  down  to  the  shore  again,  and  see  this  print  of  a 
foot,  and  measure  it  by  my  own,  and  see  if  there  was  any 
similitude  or  fitness,  that  I might  be  assured  it  was  my  own 
foot : but  when  I came  to  the  place,  first  it  appeared  evi- 
dently to  me  that  when  I laid  up  my  boat,  I could  not  pos- 
sibly be  on  shore  any  wdiere  thereabouts;  secondly,  when  I 
came  to  measure  the  mark  with  my  own  foot,  I found  my 
foot  not  so  long  by  a great  deal.  Both  these  things  filled 
my  head  with  new  imaginations,  and  gave  me  the  vapours 
again  to  the  highest  degree  ; so  that  I shook  with  cold,  like 
one  in  an  ague ; and  I went  home  again  filled  with  a belief, 
that  some  man  or  men  had  been  on  shore  there ; or,  in 
short,  that  the  island  was  inhabited,  and  I might  be  sur- 
prised before  I was  aware ; and  what  course  to  take  for  my 
security  I knew  not. 

About  a year  and  a half  after  I had  entertained  these 
notions,  and  by  long  musing  had,  as  it  were,  resolved  them 
all  into  nothing,  I was  surprised  one  morning  early  with 
seeing  no  less  than  five  canoes  all  on  shore  together,  on  my 
side  the  island,  and  the  people  who  belonged  to  them  all 


AND  OBTAINS  A SERVANT 


65 


landed  and  out  of  my  sight.  The  number  of  them  broke 
all  my  measures ; for  seeing  so  many,  and  knowing  that 
they  always  came  four  or  six  or  sometimes  more  in  a boat, 
I could  not  tell  what  to  think  of  it,  or  how  to  take  my 
measures,  to  attack  twenty  or  thirty  men  single-handed  ; 
so  I lay  still  in  my  castle,  perplexed  and  discomforted; 
hewever,  I put  myself  into  all  the  same  postures  for  an 
attack  that  I had  formerly  provided,  and  was  just  ready  for 
action,  if  anything  had  presented  itself,  having  waited  a 
good  while  listening  to  hear  if  they  made  any  noise.  At 
length,  being  very  impatient,  I set  my  guns  at  the  foot  of 
my  ladder,  and  clambered  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  by  my 
two  stages  as  usual ; standing  so,  however,  that  my  head 
did  not  appear  above  the  hill : so  that  they  could  not  per- 
ceive me  by  any  means.  Here  I observed,  by  the  help  of 
my  perspective  glass,  that  there  were  no  less  than  thirty 
in  number,  that  they  bad  a fire  kindled,  and  that  they  had 
meat  dressed  ; how  they  cooked  it,  that  I knew  not,  or  what 
it  was ; but  they  were  all  dancing  in  I know  not  how  many 
barbarous  gestures  and  figures,  their  own  way,  round  the 
fire. 

When  I was  thus  looking  on  them,  I perceived  by  my 
perspective  two  miserable  wretches  dragged  from  the  boats, 
where  it  seems  they  were  laid  by,  and  were  now  brought 
out  for  the  slaughter.  I perceived  one  of  them  immediate- 
ly fall,  being  knocked  down,  I suppose,  with  a club  or 
wooden  sword,  for  that  was  their  way ; and  two  or  three 
others  were  at  work  immediately,  cutting  him  open  for 
their  cookery,  while  the  other  victim  was  left  standing  by 
himself  till  they  should  be  ready  for  him.  In  that  very  mo- 
ment, this  poor  wretch  seeing  himself  a little  at  liberty, 
nature  inspired  him  with  hopes  of  life,  and  he  started  away 
from  them,  and  ran  along  the  sands  with  incredible  swift- 


G6  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND , 

ness  dire  ctly  towards  me  ; I mean  towards  that  part  of  tlio 
coast  where  my  habitation  was. 

I was  dreadfully  frighted  (that  I must  acknowledge) 
when  I perceived  him  to  run  my  way ; and  especially  when, 
as  I thought,  I saw  him  pursued  by  the  whole  body.  There 
was  between  them  and  my  castle  the  creek,  which  I men- 
tioned often  at  the  first  part  of  my  story,  when  I landed 
my  cargoes  out  of  the  ship ; and  this  I knew  he  must  ne- 
cessarily swim  over,  or  the  poor  wretch  would  be  taken 
there  ; but  when  the  savage  escaping  came  thither,  he  made 
nothing  of  it,  though  the  tide  was  then  up ; but  plunging 
in,  swam  through  in  about  thirty  strokes  or  thereabouts, 
landed,  and  ran  on  with  exceeding  strength  and  swiftness. 
When  the  three  pursuers  came  to  the  creek,  I found  that 
two  of  them  could  swim,  but  the  third  could  not,  and  that 
he,  standing  on  the  other  side,  looked  at  the  others,  but 
went  no  farther,  and  soon  after  went  softly  back  again ; 
which,  as  it  happened,  was  very  well  for  him  in  the  main. 

I observed  that  the  two  who  swam  were  yet  more  than 
twice  as  long  swimming  over  the  creek  than  the  fellow  was 
that  fled  from  them  ; it  came  now  very  warmly  upon  my 
thoughts,  and  indeed  irresistibly,  that  now  was  my  time  to 
get  me  a servant,  and  perhaps  a companion  or  assistant, 
and  that  I was  called  plainly  by  Providence  to  save  this 
poor  creature’s  life.  I immediately  got  down  the  ladder 
with  all  possible  expedition,  fetched  my  two  guns,  for  they 
were  both  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  as  I observed  above  ; 
and  getting  up  again  with  the  same  haste  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  I crossed  towards  the  sea  ; and,  having  a very  short 
cut,  and  all  down  hill,  clapped  myself  in  the  way  between 
the  pursuers  and  the  pursued,  hallooing  aloud  to  him  that 
fled,  who  looking  back,  was  at  first  perhaps  as  much  fright 
ened  at  me  as  at  them  ; but  I beckoned  with  my  hand  to 


AND  OBTAINS  A SERVANT. 


67 


him  to  come  back ; and  in  the  meantime  I slowly  advanced 
towards  the  two  that  followed  ; then  rushing  at  once  upon 
the  foremost,  I knocked  him  down  with  the  stock  of  my 
piece  : I was  loath  to  fire,  because  I would  not  have  the  rest 
hear  ; though  at  that  distance  it  would  not  have  been  easily 
heard  ; and  being  out  of  sight  of  the  smoke  too,  they  would 
not  have  easily  known  what  to  make  of  it.  Having  knocked 
this  fellow  down,  the  other  who  pursued  him  stopped,  as  if 
he  had  been  frightened,  and  I advanced  a pace  towards 
him  ; but  as  I came  nearer,  I perceived  presently  he  had  a 
bow  and  arrow,  and  was  fitting  it  to  shoot  at  me ; so  I was 
then  necessitated  to  shoot  at  him  first,  which  I did,  and 
killed  him  at  the  first  shot.  The  poor  savage  wTho  fled  but 
had  stopped,  though  he  saw  both  his  enemies  fallen  and 
killed  (as  he  thought),  yet  was  so  frighted  with  the  fire  and 
noise  of  my  piece,  that  he  stood  stock-still,  and  neither 
came  forward  nor  went  backward,  though  he  seemed  rather 
inclined  to  fly  still  than  to  come  on.  I hallooed  again  to 
him  and  made  signs  to  come  forward,  which  he  easily  un- 
derstood, and  came  a little  way,  then  stopped  again,  and 
then  a little  farther,  and  then  stopped  again ; and  I 
could  then  perceive  that  he  stood  trembling,  as  if  he  had 
been  taken  prisoner,  and  had  just  been  to  be  killed,  as  his 
two  enemies  were.  I beckoned  him  again  to  come  to  me, 
and  gave  him  all  the  signs  of  encouragement  that  I could 
think  of ; and  he  came  nearer  and  nearer,  kneeling  down 
every  ten  or  twelve  steps,  in  token  of  acknowledgment  for 
saving  his  life.  I smiled  at  him  and  looked  pleasantly,  and 
beckoned  to  him  to  come  still  nearer.  At  length  he  came 
close  to  me,  and  then  he  kneeled  dowrn  again,  kissed  the 
ground,  and  laid  his  head  upon  the  ground,  and  taking  me 
by  the  foot,  set  my  foot  upon  his  head : this,  it  seems,  was 
in  token  of  swearing  to  be  my  slave  for  ever  T took  him 


63 


HE  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND , 


up,  and  made  much  of  him.  and  encouraged  him  all  I could 
But  there  was  more  work  to  do  yet ; for  I perceived  the 
savage  whom  I knocked  down  was  not  killed,  but  stunned 
with  the  blow,  and  began  to  come  to  himself ; so  I pointed 
to  him,  and  showed  him  the  savage,  that  he  was  not  dead  ; 
upon  this  he  spoke  some  words  to  me,  and  though  I could 
not  understand  them,  yet  I thought  they  were  pleasant  to 
hear,  for  they  were  the  first  sound  of  a man’s  voice  that  I had 
heard  (my  own  excepted)  for  above  five-and-twenty  years : 
but  there  was  no  time  for  such  reflections  now  : the  savage 
who  was  knocked  down  recovered  himself  so  far  as  to  sit 
up  upon  the  ground  ; and  I perceived  that  my  savage  be- 
gan to  be  afraid  ; but  when  I saw  that,  I presented  my 
other  piece  at  the  man,  as  if  I would  shoot  him  ; upon  this 
my  savage,  for  so  I call  him  now,  made  a motion  to  me  to 
lend  him  my  sword,  which  hung  naked  in  a belt  by  my 
side  ; so  I did  : he  no  sooner  had  it  but  he  runs  to  his 
enemy,  and  at  one  blow  cut  off  his  head  so  cleverly,  no  ex- 
ecutioner in  Germany  could  have  done  it  sooner  or  better ; 
which  I thought  it  very  strange  for  one  who,  I had  reason 
to  believe,  never  saw  a sword  in  his  life  before,  except  their 
own  wooden  swords ; however,  it  seems,  as  I learned  after- 
wards, they  made  their  wooden  swords  so  sharp,  so  heavy, 
and  the  wood  is  so  hard,  that  they  will  cut  off  heads  even 
with  them,  ay,  and  arms,  and  that  at  one  blow  too.  When 
he  had  done  this,  he  comes  laughing  to  me  in  sign  of 
triumph,  and  brought  me  the  sword  again  ; and  with  abun- 
dance of  gestures,  which  I did  not  understand,  laid  it  down, 
with  the  head  of  the  savage  that  he  had  killed  just  before  me. 

But  that  which  astonished  him  most  was,  to  know  how 
I had  killed  the  other  Indian  so  far  off : so  pointing  to  him, 
he  made  signs  to  me  to  let  him  go  to  him : so  I bade  him 
go  as  well  as  I could.  When  he  came  to  him  he  stood  like 


AND  OBTAINS  A SERVANT. 


69 


one  amazed,  looking  at  him  ; turning  him  first  on  one  side, 
then  on  the  other ; looked  at  the  wound  the  bullet  had 
made,  which,  it  seems,  was  just  in  his  breast,  where  it  had 
made  an  hole,  and  no  great  quantity  of  blood  had  followed ; 
but  he  had  bled  inwardly,  for  he  was  quite  dead.  Then 
lie  took  up  liis  bow  and  arrows,  and  came  back  ; so  I turned 
to  go  away,  and  beckoned  to  him  to  follow  me,  making  signs 
to  him,  that  more  might  come  after  them. 

Upon  this  he  signified  to  me,  that  he  should  bury  them 
with  sand,  that  they  might  not  be  seen  by  the  rest,  if  they 
followed ; and  so  I made  signs  again  to  him  to  do  so.  He 
fell  to  work,  and  in  an  instant  he  had  scraped  an  hole  in  the 
sand  with  his  hands  big  enough  to  bury  the  first  in,  and 
then  dragged  him  into  it,  and  covered  him  ; and  did  so  also 
by  the  other.  I believe  he  had  buried  them  both  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  calling  him  away,  I carried  him, 
not  to  my  castle,  but  quite  away  to  my  cave,  on  the  farther 
part  of  the  island. 

Here  I gave  him  bread,  and  a bunch  of  raisins  to  eat, 
and  a draught  of  water,  which  I found  he  was  indeed  in 
great  distress  for  by  his  running ; and  having  refreshed 
himself,  I made  signs  for  him  to  go  lie  down  and  sleep, 
pointing  to  a place  where  I had  laid  a great  parcel  of  rice 
straw,  and  a blanket  upon  it,  which  I used  to  sleep  upon 
myself  sometimes  ; so  the  poor  creature  lay  down,  and 
went  to  sleep. 

He  was  a comely,  handsome  fellow,  perfectly  well-made, 
with  straight  long  limbs,  not  too  large,  tall,  and  well- 
shaped  ; and,  as  I reckon,  about  twenty-six  years  of  age. 
He  had  a very  good  countenance,  not  a fierce  and  surly 
aspect,  but  seemed  to  have  something  very  manly  in  his 
face,  and  yet  he  had  all  the  sweetness  and  softness  of  an 
European  in  his  countenance  too,  especially  when  he  smiled  ; 


70 


HE  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND , 


his  hair  was  long  and  black,  not  curled  like  wool ; his  fore- 
head very  high  and  large,  and  a great  vivacity  and  spark- 
ling sharpness  in  his  eyes.  The  colour  of  his  skin  was  not 
quite  black,  but  very  tawny  and  yet  not  of  an  ugly,  yellow, 
nauseous  tawny,  as  the  Brazilians,  and  Virginians,  and  other 
natives  of  America  are,  but  of  a bright  kind  of  a dun  olive 
colour,  that  had  something  in  it  very  agreeable,  though  not 
very  easy  to  describe.  His  face  was  round  and  plump,  his 
nose  small,  not  flat  like  the  Negroes;  a very  good  mouth, 
thin  lips,  and  his  teeth  fine,  well  set,  and  white  as  ivory. 
After  he  had  slumbered  rather  than  slept,  about  half  an 
hour,  he  waked  again,  and  comes  out  of  the  cave  to  me,  for 
I had  been  milking  my  goats,  which  I had  in  the  inclosure 
just  by.  When  he  espied  me,  he  came  running  to  me,  lay- 
ing himself  down  again  upon  the  ground,  with  all  the  possi- 
ble signs  of  an  humble  thankful  disposition,  making  many 
antick  gestures  to  show  it.  At  last  lie  lays  his  head  flat 
upon  the  ground,  close  to  my  foot,  and  sets  my  other  foot 
upon  his  head,  as  he  had  done  before  ; and  after  this,  made 
all  the  signs  to  me  of  subjection,  servitude,  and  submission 
imaginable,  to  let  me  know  how  much  he  would  serve  me  as 
long  as  he  lived.  I understood  him  in  many  things,  and  let 
him  know  I was  very  well  pleased  with  him.  In  a little 
time  I began  to  speak  to  him,  and  teach  him  to  speak  to 
me  ; at  first  I made  him  know  his  name  should  be  Friday, 
which  was  the  day  I saved  his  life,  and  I called  him  so  in 
memory  of  the  time.  I likewise  taught  him  to  say,  61  Mas- 
ter,” and  then  let  him  know  that  was  to  be  my  name ; I 
likewise  taught  him  to  say  Yes  and  No,  and  to  know  the 
meaning  of  them  ; I gave  him  some  milk  in  an  earthen  pot, 
and  let  him  see  me  drink  it  before  him,  and  sop  my  bread 
in  it,  and  I gave  him  a cake  of  bread  to  do  the  like,  which 
he  quickly  complied  with,  and  made  signs  that  it  was  very 
good  for  him. 


AND  OBTAINS  A SERVANT. 


71 


I kept  there  with  him  all  that  night,  but  as  soon  as  it 
was  day,  I beckoned  him  to  come  with  me,  and  let  him 
know  I would  give  him  some  clothes,  at  which  he  seemed 
very  glad,  for  he  was  stark-naked.  As  he  went  by  the 
place  where  he  had  buried  the  two  men,  he  pointed  exactly 
to  the  spot,  and  showed  me  the  marks  that  he  had  made  to 
find  them  again,  making  signs  to  me  that  he  would  dig  them 
ip  again  and  eat  them  ; at  this  I appeared  very  angry,  ex 
pressed  my  abhorrence  of  it,  made  as  if  I would  vomit  at 
the  thoughts  of  it,  and  beckoned  with  my  hand  to  him  to 
come  away,  which  he  did  immediately  with  great  submis- 
sion. I then  led  him  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  to  see  if  his 
enemies  were  gone  ; and  pulling  out  my  glass,  I looked,  and 
saw  plainly  the  place  where  they  had  been,  but  no  appear- 
ance of  them  or  their  canoes  ; so  that  it  was  plain  that  they 
were  gone,  and  had  left  their  two  comrades  behind  them, 
without  any  search  after  them. 

But  I was  not  content  with  this  discovery  ; but  having 
now  more  courage,  and  consequently  more  curiosity,  I took 
my  man  Friday  with  me,  giving  him  the  sword  in  his  hand, 
with  the  bow  and  arrows  at  his  back,  which  I found  he 
could  use  very  dexterously,  making  him  carry  one  gun  for 
me,  and  I two  for  myself,  and  away  we  marched  to  the 
place  where  these  creatures  had  been  ; for  I had  a mind 
now  to  get  some  fuller  intelligence  of  them.  When  I came 
to  the  place,  my  very  blood  ran  chill  in  my  veins,  and  my 
heart  sunk  within  me  at  the  horror  of  the  spectacle.  Indeed 
it  was  a dreadful  sight ; at  least  it  was  so  to  me,  though 
Friday  made  nothing  of  it.  The  place  was  covered  with 
human  bones,  the  ground  dyed  with  the  blood,  great  pieces 
of  flesh  left  here  and  there  half  eaten,  mangled,  and 
scorched ; and  in  short,  all  the  tokens  of  the  triumphant 
feast  they  had  been  making  there,  after  a victory  over  their 


72 


HE  SEES  SAVAGES  ON  THE  ISLAND . 


enemies.  I saw  three  skulls,  five  hands,  and  the  bones  of 
three  or  four  legs  and  feet,  and  abundance  of  other  parts  of 
the  bodies  ; and  Friday,  by  his  signs,  made  me  understand, 
that  they  brought  over  four  prisoners  to  feast  upon ; that 
three  of  them  were  eaten  up,  and  that  he  (pointing  to  him- 
self) was  the  fourth  ; that  there  had  been  a great  battle 
between  them  and  their  next  king,  whose  subjects,  it  seems, 
he  had  been  one  of ; and  that  they  had  taken  a great  num- 
ber of  prisoners,  all  which  were  carried  to  several  places  by 
those  that  had  taken  them  in  the  fight,  in  order  to  feast 
upon  them,  as  was  done  here  by  these  wretches  upon  those 
they  brought  hither. 

I caused  Friday  to  gather  all  the  skulls,  bones,  flesh,  and 
whatever  remained,  and  lay  them  together  on  an  heap,  and 
make  a great  fire  upon  it  and  burn  them  all  to  ashes.  I found 
Friday  had  still  a hankering  stomach  after  some  of  the  flesh, 
and  was  still  a cannibal  in  his  nature ; but  I discovered  so 
much  abhorrence  at  the  very  thoughts  of  it,  and  at  the  least 
appearance  of  it,  that  he  durst  not  discover  it ; for  I had,  by 
some  means,  let  him  know,  that  I would  kill  him  if  he  offered 
it. 

When  we  had  done  this,  we  came  back  to  our  castle,  and 
there  I fell  to  work  for  my  man  Friday. 


'prttr  Minus's  Bisrnnmi  nf  a /h|ing  iUmnau 

The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Peter  Wilkins , a Cornish  man , is  the 
only  imitation  of  Robinson  Crusoe  that  has  stood  its  ground,  with  the 
exception  of  the  inferior,  but  still  not  unmeritorious  History  of  Philip 
Quarll.  It  is  a Crusoe  with  the  novelty  of  a Flying  people ; as  Quarll 
is  another,  with  the  substitution  of  an  affectionate  ape,  or  Chimpanzee, 
for  Man  Friday.  The  modest  author,  who  seems  to  have  taken  no 
steps  to  make  either  himself  or  his  book  known,  has  been  but  lately 
discovered ; if  indeed  the  receiver  of  the  money  for  its  copyright  was 
the  same  person.  And  it  is  most  likely  he  was,  the  initials  by  which 
the  dedication  of  the  work  is  signed  being  those  of  the  receiver’s  name. 
The  circumstances  of  the  discovery  is  thus  stated  in  the  latest  edition, 
published  by  Mr.  Smith  of  Fleet  Street. 

“In  the  year  1835,  Mr.  Nicol,  the  planter,  sold  by  auction  a number 
of  books  and  manuscripts  in  his  possession,  which  had  formerly  be- 
longed to  the  well-known  publisher  Dodsley ; and  in  arranging  them 
for  sale,  the  original  agreement  for  the  sale  of  the  manuscript  of  ‘Peter 
Wilkins,’  by  the  author,  ‘Robert  Pultock  of  Clement’s  Inn,’  to  Dodsley, 
was  discovered.  From  this  document  it  appears,  that  Mr.  Pultock 
received  twenty  pounds,  twelve  copies  of  the  work,  and  ‘ cuts  of  the 
first  impression,’  i.  e a set  of  proof  impressions  of  the  fanciful  engrav- 
ings that  professed  to  illustrate  the  first  edition,  as  the  price  of  the 
entire  copyright.  This  curious  document  was  sold  to  John  Wilks, 
Esq.,  M.  P.,  on  the  17th  of  December,  1835.” 

The  reader  will  observe,  that  the  words  “by  the  author,”  in  this 
extract,  are  not  accompanied  by  marks  of  quotation.  The  fact,  how- 
ever, is  stated  as  if  he  knew  it  for  such,  by  the  quoter  of  the  document. 

The  Dedication  is  to  Elizabeth,  Countess  of  Northumberland,  the 


74 


PETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


lady  to  whom  Percy  addressed  his  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry 
She  was  a Wriothesley,  descended  of  Shakspenre’s  Earl  of  South- 
ampton, and  appeal's  to  have  been  a very  amiable  woman.  “R.  P.” 
professes  himself  to  be  under  obligations  to  her;  and  says,  that  it  was 
after  the  pattern  of  her  virtues  that  he  drew  the  “mind”  of  hi* 
Youwarkee. 

It  is  interesting  to  fancy  “R.  P.,”  or  “Mr.  Robert  Pultock  of 
Clement’s  Inn,”  a gentle  lover  of  books,  not  successful  enough  perhaps 
as  a barrister  to  lead  a public  or  profitable  life,  but  eking  out  a little 
employment,  or  a bit  of  a patrimony,  witb  literature  congenial  to  him, 
and  looking  oftener  to  Purchases  Pilgrims  on  his  shelves  than  to  Coke 
upon  Littleton.  We  picture  him  to  ourselves,  with  Robinson  Crusoe 
on  one  side  of  him,  and  Gaudentio  di  Lucca  on  the  other,  hearing  the 
pen  go  over  his  paper  in  one  of  those  quiet  rooms  in  Clement’s  Inn, 
that  look  out  of  its  old-fashioned  buildings  into  the  little  garden  with 
the  dial  in  it,  held  by  the  negro;  one  of  the  prettiest  corners  in  London, 
and  extremely  fit  for  a sequestered  fancy  that  cannot  get  any  farther. 
There  he  sits,  the  unknown,  ingenious,  and  amiable  Mr.  Robert  Pultock, 
thinking  of  an  imaginary  beauty  for  want  of  a better;  and  creating 
her  for  the  delight  of  posterity,  though  his  contemporaries  were  to 
know  little  or  nothing  of  her.  We  shall  never  go  through  the  place 
again,  without  regarding  him  as  its  crowning  interest. 

Peter  Wilkins  is  no  common  production  in  any  respect,  though  it  is 
far  inferior  to  Crusoe  in  contrivance  and  detail ; and  falls  off,  like  all 
these  imaginary  works,  in  the  latter  part,  when  they  begin  laying 
down  the  law  in  politics  and  religion.  It  has  been  well  observed  too, 
that  the  author  has  not  made  his  Flying  People  in  general  light  and 
airy  enough,  or  of  sufficiently  unvulgar  materials,  either  in  body  or 
mind,  to  warrant  the  ethereal  advantages  of  their  wings.  And  it  may 
be  said  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  kind  of  wing,  the  graundee,  or 
elastic  natural  drapery,  which  opens  and  shuts  at  pleasure,  however 
ingeniously  and  even  beautifully  contrived,  would  necessitate  a crea- 
ture,. whose  modifications  of  humanity,  bodily  and  mental,  though 
ne.ver  so  good  after  their  kind,  might  have  startled  the  inventor  had 
he  been  more  of  a naturalist;  might  have  developed  a being  very 
different  from  the  feminine,  sympathizing,  and  lovely  Youwarkee. 
Muscles  and  nerves,  not  human,  must  have  been  associated  with 
inhuman  wants  and  feelings;  probably  have  necessitated  talons  and  a 
beak!  At  best*  the  wornae  would  have  been  wilder;  more  elvish, 


OF  THE  FLYING  WOMAN. 


75 


capricious,  and  unaccountable.  She  would  haye  ruffled  her  whale- 
bones when  angry ; been  horribly  intimate  perhaps  with  birds’  nests, 
and  fights  with  eagles;  and  frightened  Wilkins  out  of  his  wits  with 
dashing  betwixt  rocks,  and  pulling  the  noses  of  seals  and  gulls.  So  far 
the  book  is  wanting  in  verisimilitude  and  imagination. 

But  then  how  willing  we  are  to  gain  the  fair  winged  creature  at 
the  expense  of  Zoonomy ! and  after  all,  how  founded  in  nature  itself  is 
the  human  desire  to  fly!  We  do  so  in  dreams:  we  all  long  for  the 
power  when  children : we  think  of  it  in  poetry  and  in  sorrow.  “ Oh 
that  I had  the  wings  of  a dove ! then  would  I fly  away  and  be  at  rest.” 
Wilkins  fled  away  into  a beautiful  twilight  country,  far  from  his  un- 
resting self  and  vulgar  daylight;  and  not  being  able  to  give  himself 
wings,  he  invented  a wife  that  had  them  instead.  Now  a sweeter 
creature  is  not  to  be  found  in  books;  and  she  does  him  immortal 
honour.  She  is  all  tenderness  and  vivacity ; all  born  good  taste  and 
blessed  companionship.  Her  pleasure  consists  but  in  his : she  prevents 
all  his  wishes ; has  neither  prudery  nor  immodesty ; sheds  not  a tear 
but  from  right  feeling ; is  the  good  of  his  home,  and  the  grace  of  his 
fancy.  It  is  a pity  the  account  of  his  bridal  cannot  be  given ; for  never 
were  love  and  purity  better  united;  but  to  draw  it  forth  from  the 
general  history,  might  give  it  in  too  ljiany  eyes  a freedom  which  does 
not  belong  to  it.  We  must  content  ourselves  with  extracting  the 
account  of  the  charmer’s  discovery,  and  of  the  way  in  which  Peter 
first  became  acquainted  with  her  powers  of  flight.  The  voices  which 
he  hears  at  night,  the  fall  of  some  unknown  weight  at  his  door,  the 
puzzle  about  the  graundee  that  has  been  slit,  and  the  first  movements 
of  the  winged  beauty  over  the  lake,  are  all  points  particularly  well-felt 
and  interesting. 

The  reader  is  to  understand,  that  Peter  had  by  this  time  settled 
himself,  d la  Crusoe , in  his  solitary  abode ; which  is  in  a cavern  by  the 
side  of  a lake,  into  which  he  had  been  drifted  through  a long  subter- 
raneous passage  from  the  sea.  It  was  a very  beautiful  place,  but  so  far 
out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  the  sun,  that  “the  brightest  daylight 
never  exceeded  that  of  half  an  hour  after  sunset  in  the  summer-time  in 
England,  and  little  more  than  just  reddened  the  sky.”  In  consequence 
of  this  nature  of  her  climate,  .Youwarkee  was  in  all  respects  a very 
tender-eyed  thing,  and  could  not  bear  a strong  light. 


76 


PETER  WILKIE  S' S DISCOVERY 


I II  AD  now  well  stored  my  grotto  with  all  sorts  of  winter 
provisions ; and  feeling  the  weather  grow  very  cold,  I 
expected,  and  waited  patiently  for,  the  total  darkness.  I 
went  little  abroad,  and  employed  myself  within  doors,  en- 
deavouring to  fence  against  the  approaching  extremity  of 
the  cold.  For  this  purpose  I prepared  a quantity  of  rushes, 
which  being  very  dry,  I spread  them  smoothly  on  the  floor 
of  my  bed-chamber  a good  thickness,  and  over  them  I laid 
my  mattress : then  I made  a double  sheet  of  the  boat’s  awn- 
ing, or  sail,  that  I had  brought  to  cover  my  goods  ; and 
having  skewered  together  several  of  the  jackets  and  clothes 
I found  in  the  chest,  of  them  I made  a coverlid  ; so  that  I 
lay  very  commodiously,  and  made  very  long  nights  of  it. 
now  the  dark  season  was  set  in. 

As  I lay  awake  one  night,  or  day,  I know  not  whether, 
I very  plainly  heard  the  sound  of  several  human  voices,  and 
sometimes  very  loud  ; but  though  I could  easily  distinguish 
the  articulations,  I could  not  understand  the  least  word  that 
was  said ; nor  did  the  voices  seem  at  all  to  me  like  such  as 
I had  anywhere  heard  before,  but  much  softer  and  more 
musical.  This  startled  me,  and  I rose  immediately,  slip- 
ping on  my  clothes  and  taking  my  gun  in  my  hand  (which 
I always  kept  charged,  being  my  constant  travelling  com- 
panion), and  my  cutlass.  Thus  equipped,  I walked  into  my 
antechamber,  wdiere  I heard  the  voices  much  plainer  ; till, 
after  some  little  time,  they  quite  died  away.  After  watch- 
ing here,  and  hearkening  a good  while,  hearing  nothing,  I 
walked  back  into  the  grotto,  and  laid  me  down  again  on  my 
bed.  I was  inclined  to  open  the  door  of  my  antechamber, 
but  I own  I was  afraid ; beside,  I considered,  that  if  I did, 
I could  discover  nothing  at  any  distance,  by  reason  of  the 
thick  and  gloomy  wood  that  enclosed  me. 


OF  TEE  FLYING  WOMAN. 


77 


I had  a thousand  different  surmises  about  the  meaning 
of  this  odd  incident ; and  could  not  conceive  how  any  human 
creature  should  be  in  my  kingdom  (as  I called  it)  but  my- 
self, and  I never  yet  see  them  or  any  traces  of  their  habita- 
tion. But  then  again  I reflected,  that  though  I had  sur- 
rounded the  whole  lake,  yet  I had  not  traced  the  outbounds 
of  the  wood,  next  the  rock,  where  there  might  be  innumer- 
able grottos  like  mine ; nay,  perhaps  some  as  spacious  as 
that  I had  sailed  through  to  the  lake  ; and  that  though  I 
had  not  perceived  it  yet,  this  beautiful  spot  might  be  very 
well  peopled.  But,  says  I again,  if  there  be  any  such  beings 
as  I am  fancying  here,  surely  they  don’t  skulk  in  their  dens, 
like  savage  beasts,  by  daylight,  and  only  patrol  for  prey  by 
night ; if  so,  I shall  probably  become  a delicious  morsel  for 
them  ere  long,  if  they  meet  with  me.  This  kept  me  still 
more  within  doors  than  before,  and  I hardly  ever  stirred  out 
but  for  water  or  firing.  At  length,  hearing  no  more  voices, 
or  seeing  any  one,  I began  to  be  more  eomposeel  in  my  mind, 
and  at  last  grew  persuaded  it  was  all  a mere  delusion,  and 
only  a fancy  of  mine  without  any  real  foundation  ; and  some- 
times, though  I was  sure  I was  fully  awake  when  I heard 
them,  I persuaded  myself  I had  rose  in  my  sleep  upon  a 
dream  of  voices,  and  recollected  with  myself  the  various 
stories  I had  heard  when  a boy  of  walking  in  one’s  sleep, 
and  the  surprising  effects  of  it ; so  the  whole  notion  was 
now  blown  over. 

I had  not  enjoyed  mj  tranquillity  above  a week,  before 
my  fears  were  roused  afresh,  hearing  the  same  sound  of 
voices  twice  the  same  night,  but  not  many  minutes  at  a 
time.  What  gave  me  most  pain  wras,  that  they  were  at  such 
a distance,  as  I judged  by  the  languor  of  the  sound,  that 
if  I had  opened  my  door  I could  not  have  seen  the  utterers 
through  the  trees,  and  I was  resolved  not  to  venture  out ; 


78 


PETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


but  then  I determined,  if  they  should  come  again,  anything 
near  my  grotto,  to  open  the  door,  see  who  they  were,  and 
stand  upon  my  own  defence,  whatever  came  of  it.  For,  says 
I,  my  entrance  is  so  narrow  and  high,  that  more  than  one 
cannot  come  at  a time ; and  I can  with  ease  dispatch 
twenty  of  them,  before  they  can  secure  me,  if  they  should 
be  savages ; but  if  they  prove  sensible  human  creatures,  it 
will  be  a great  benefit  to  me  to  join  myself  to  their  society. 
Thus  had  I formed  my  scheme,  but  I heard  no  more  of 
them  for  a great  wdiile  ; so  that  at  length  beginning  to  grow 

ashamed  of  my  fears,  I became  tranquil  again. 

# # # # 

I passed  the  summer,  though  I had  never  yet  seen  the 
sun’s  body,  very  much  to  my  satisfaction,  partly  in  the 
work  I have  been  describing  [he  had  taken  what  he  calls 
some  “ beast-fish”  and  got  a great  quantity  of  oil  from 
them],  partly  in  building  me  a chimney  in  my  antechamber, 
of  mud  and  earth  burnt  on  my  own  hearth ‘into  a sort  of 
brick ; in  making  a window  at  one  end  of  the  above  said 
chamber,  to  let  in  what  little  light  would  come  through  the 
trees,  when  I did  not  choose  to  open  my  door  ; in  moulding 
an  earthen  lamp  for  my  oil ; and  finally,  in  providing  and 
laying  in  stores,  fresh  and  salt ; for  I had  now  cured  and 
dried  many  more  fish  against  winter.  These,  I say,  were 
my  summer  employments  at  home,  intermixed  with  many 
agreeable  summer  excursions.  But  now  the  winter  coming 
on,  and  the  days  growing  very  short,  or  indeed  there  being 
no  day,  properly  speaking,  but  a kind  of  twilight,  I kept 
mostly  in  my  habitation  (though  not  so  much  as  I had  done 
the  winter  before,  when  I had  no  light  within  doors)  and 
slept,  or  at  least  lay  still,  great  part  of  my  time,  for 
now  my  lamp  was  never  out.  I also  turned  two  of  my 
beast-fish  skins  into  a rug  to  cover  my  bed,  and  the  third 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN, 


79 


into  a cushion,  which  I always  sat  upon ; and  a very  soft 
and  warm  cushion  it  made.  All  this  together  rendered  my 
life  very  easy  ; yea,  even  comfortable. 

An  indifferent  person  would  now  be  apt  to  ask,  what 
wrould  this  man  desire  more  than  he  had  ? To  this  I 
answer,  that  I was  contented  while  my  condition  was  such 
as  I have  been  describing  ; but  a little  while  after  the  dark- 
ness or  twilight  came  on,  I frequently  heard  the  voices 
again,  sometimes  a few  only  at  a time,  as  it  seemed,  and 
then  again  in  great  numbers.  This  threw  me  into  new 
fears,  and  I became  as  uneasy  as  ever,  even  to  the  degree 
of  growing  quite  melancholy  ; though  otherwise  I never 
received  the  least  injury  from  anything.  I foolishly  at- 
tempted several  times,  by  looking  out  of  window,  to  dis- 
cover what  these  odd  sounds  proceeded  from,  though  I 
knew  it  was  too  dark  to  see  anything  there. 

I was  now  fully  convinced,  by  a more  deliberate  atten- 
tion to  them,  that  they  could  not  be  uttered  by  the  beast- 
fish,  as  I had  before  conjectured,  but  only  by  beings  capable 
of  articulate  speech.  But  then,  what  or  where  they  were, 
it  galled  me  to  be  ignorant  of. 

At  length,  one  night  or  day,  I cannot  say  which,  hearing 
the  voices  very  distinctly,  aud  praying  very  earnestly  to  be 
either  delivered  from  the  uncertainty  they  had  put  me 
under,  or  to  have  them  removed  from  me,  I took  courage, 
and  arming  myself  with  gun,  pistols,  and  cutlass,  I went  out 
of  my  grotto,  and  crept  down  the  wood.  I then  heard  them 
plainer  than  before,  and  was  able  to  judge  from  what  point 
of  the  compass  they  proceeded.  Hereupon  I went  forward 
towards  the  sound  till  I came  to  the  verge  of  the  wood, 
where  I could  see  the  lake  very  well  by  the  dazzle  of  the 
water.  Thereon,  as  I thought,  I beheld  a fleet  of  boats, 
covering  a large  compass,  and  not  far  from  the  bridge.  I 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


SO 


PETER  W1L  KISS'S  DISCOVERY 


was  shocked  liercat  beyond  expression : I could  not  con- 
ceive where  they  came  from,  or  whither  they  would  go  ; 
but  supposed  there  must  be  some  other  passage  to  the  lake, 
than  I had  found  in  my  voyage  through  the  cavern,  and 
that  for  certain  they  came  that  way,  and  from  some  place 
of  which  as  yet  I had  no  manner  of  knowledge. 

Whilst  I was  entertaining  myself  with  this  speculation, 
I heard  the  people  in  the  boats  laughing  and  talking  very 
merrily,  though  I was  too  distant  to  distinguish  the  words. 
I discerned  soon  after  all  the  boats  (as  I still  supposed  them) 
draw  up,  and  push  for  the  bridge  ; presently  after,  though 
I was  sure  no  boat  entered  the  arch,  I saw  a multitude  of 
people  on  the  opposite  shore,  all  marching  towards  the 
bridge ; and  what  was  the  strangest  of  all,  there  was  not 
the  least  sign  of  a boat  left  on  the  lake.  I then  was  in 
a greater  consternation  than  before  ; but  was  still  much 
more  so,  when  I saw  the  whole  posse  of  people,  that,  as  I 
have  just  said,  were  marching  towards  the  bridge,  coming 
over  it  to  my  side  of  the  lake.  At  this  my  heart  failed  ; 
and  I was  just  going  to  run  to  my  grotto  for  shelter,  but 
taking  one  look  more,  I plainly  discovered,  that  the  people, 
leaping  one  after  another  from  the  top  of  the  bridge,  as  if 
into  the  water,  and  then  rising  again,  flew  in  a long  train 
over  the  lake,  the  lengthways  of  it,  quite  out  of  sight,  laugh- 
ing, hallooing,  and  sporting  together  ; so  that,  looking  back 
again  to  the  bridge  and  on  the  lake,  I could  neither  see 
person,  boat,  or  anything  else,  nor  hear  the  least  noise  or  stir 
afterwards  for  that  time. 

I returned  to  iny  grotto  brim-full  of  this  amazing  adven- 
ture, bemoaning  my  misfortune  in  being  at  a place  where  I 
was  likely  to  remain  ignorant  of  what  was  doing  about  me. 
For,  says  I,  if  I am  in  a land  of  spirits,  as  now  I have  little 
room  to  doubt,  there  is  no  guarding  against  them.  I am 


. OF  A FLYING  WOMAN. 


81 


never  safe,  even  in  my  grotto  ; for  that  can  be  no  security 
against  such  beings  as  can  sail  on  the  water  in  no  boats,  and 
fly  in  the  air  on  no  wings  (as  the  case  now  appears  to  me), 
who  can  be  here  and  there,  and  wherever  they  please.  What  a 
miserable  state,  I say,  am  I fallen  to  ! I should  have  been 
glad  to  have  had  human  converse,  and  to  have  found  inhabit- 
ants in  this  place  ; but  there  being  none,  as  I supposed, 
hitherto,  I contented  myself  with  thinking  I was  at  least 
safe  from  all  those  evils  mankind  in  society  are  obnoxious 
to.  But  now,  what  may  be  the  consequence  of  the  next 
hour,  I know  not ; nay,  I am  not  able  to  say,  but  whilst  I 
speak  and  show  my  discontent,  they  may  at  a distance  con- 
ceive my  thoughts,  and  be  hatching  revenge  against  me  for 
my  dislike  of  them. 

The  pressure  of  my  spirits  inclining  me  to  repose,  I laid 
me  down,  but  could  get  no  rest ; nor  could  all  my  most  se- 
rious thoughts,  even  of  the  Almighty  Providence,  give  me 
relief  under  my  present  anxiety.  And  all  this  was  only 
from  my  state  of  uncertainty  concerning  the  reality  of  what 
I had  heard  and  seen,  and  from  the  earnestness  with  which 
I coveted  a satisfactory  knowledge  of  those  beings  who  had 
just  taken  their  flight  from  me. 

I really  believe  the  fiercest  wild  beast,  or  the  most 
savage  of  mankind  that  had  met  me,  and  put  me  upon  my 
defence,  would  not  have  given  me  half  the  trouble  that  then 
lay  upon  me  ; and  the  more,  for  that  I had  no  seeming 
possibility  of  ever  being  rid  of  my  apprehensions.  So  find- 
ing I could  not  sleep,  I got  up  again;  but  as  I could  not  fly 
from  myself,  all  the  art  I could  use  with  myself  was  but  in 
vain  to  obtain  me  any  quiet. 

In  the  height  of  my  distress  I had  recourse  to  prayer, 
with  no  small  benefit ; begging,  that  if  it  pleased  not  the  A1 
mighty  power  to  remove  the  object  of  my  fears,  at  least  to 
4* 


82 


VETER  WILKINS' S DISCOVERY 


resolve  my  doubts  about  them,  and  to  render  them  rathei 
helpful  than  hurtful  to  me.  I hereupon,  as  I always  did  on 
such  occasions,  found  myself  much  more  placid  and  easy, 
and  began  to  hope  the  best,  till  I had  almost  persuaded 
myself  that  I was  out  of  danger  ; and  then  laying  myself 
down,  I rested  very  sweetly,  till  I was  awakened  by  the 
mpulse  of  the  following  dream  : 

Methought  I was  in  Cornwall,  at  my  wife’s  aunt’s ; and 
inquiring  after  her  and  my  children,  the  old  gentlewoman 
informed  me,  both  my  wife  and  children  had  been  d^ad 
some  time,  and  that  my  wife,  before  her  departure,  desired 
her  (that  is  her  aunt),  immediately  upon  my  arrival,  to  tell 
me  she  was  only  gone  to  the  lake,  where  I should  be  sure 
to  see  her,  and  be  happy  with  her  after.  I then,  as  I fancied, 
ran  to  the  lake  to  find  her.  In  my  passage,  she  stopped 
me,  crying,  Whither  so  fast,  Peter  ? I am  your  wife,  your 
Patty.  Methought  I did  not  know  her,  she  was  so  altered; 
but  observing  her  voice,  I looked  more  wistfully  at  her,  she 
appeared  to  me  as  the  most  beautiful  creature  I ever  beheld. 
I then  went  to  seize  her  in  my  arms,  and  the  hurry  of  my 
spirits  awakened  me. 

When  I got  up,  I kept  at  home,  not  caring  even  to  look 
out  at  my  door.  My  dream  ran  strangely  in  my  head,  and 
I had  now  nothing  but  Patty  in  my  mind.  Oh  ! cries  I, 
how  happy  could  I be  with  her,  though  I had  only  her  in 
this  solitude.  Oh  ! that  this  was  but  a reality,  and  not  a 
dream.  I could  scarce  refrain  from  running  to  the  lake  to 
meet  my  Patty.  But  then  I checked  my  folly,  and  reason- 
ed myself  into  some  degree  of  temper  again.  However,  I 
could  not  forbear  crying  out,  What!  nobody  to  converse 
with,  nobody  to  assist,  comfort,  or  counsel  me  ! this  is  a 
melancholy  situation  indeed.  Thus  I ran  on  lamenting,  till 
I was  almost  weary  ; when,  on  a sudden,  I again  heard  the 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN. 


83 


voices.  Hark  ! says  I,  here  they  come  again.  Well,  I 
am  now  resolved  to  face  them  ; come  life  come  death.  It 
is  not  to  be  alone  I thus  dread ; but  to  have  company  about 
me,  and  not  know  who  or  wliat,  is  death  to  me,  worse 
than  I can  suffer  from  them,  be  they  who  or  what  they 
will. 

During  my  soliloquy  the  voices  increased,  and  then  by 
degrees  diminished  as  usual ; but  I had  scarce  got  my  gun 
in  my  hand,  to  pursue  my  resolution  of  showing  myself  to 
those  who  uttered  them,  when  I felt  such  a thump  upon  the 
roof  of  my  antechamber  as  shook  the  whole  fabric,  and  set 
me  all  over  into  a tremor  ; I then  heard  a sort  of  shriek; 
and  a rustle  near  the  door  of  my  apartment,  all  which  to 
gether  seemed  very  terrible.  But  I,  having  before  deter- 
mined to  see  what  and  who  it  was,  resolutely  opened  my 
door  and  leaped  out.  I saw  nobody ; all  was  quite  silent, 
and  nothing,  that  I could  perceive,  but  my  own  fears  a-mov- 
ing.  I went  then  softly  to  the  corner  of  the  building,  and 
there,  looking  down  by  the  glimmer  of  my  lamp,  which 
stood  in  the  window,  I saw  something  in  human  shape  lying 
at  my  feet.  I gave  the  word,  Who’s  there  ? — Still  no  one 
answered.  My  heart  was  ready  to  force  a way  through  my 
side.  I was  for  a while  fixed  to  the  earth  like  a statue. 
At  length  recovering,  I stepped  in,  fetched  my  lamp,  and 
returning,  saw  the  very  beautiful  face  my  Patty  appeared 
under  in  my  dream  ; and  not  considering  that  it  was  only  a 
dream,  I verily  thought  that  I had  my  Patty  before  me, 
but  she  seemed  to  be  stone  dead.  Upon  viewing  her  other 
parts — for  I had  never  yet  removed  my  eyes  from  her  face 
— I found  she  had  a sort  of  brown  chaplet,  like  lace,  round 
her  head,  under  and  about  which  her  hair  was  tucked  up 
and  twined ; and  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  clothed  in  a thin 
hair-coloured  silk  garment  which,  upon  trying  to  raise  her. 


84 


PETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


I found  to  be  quite  warm,  and  therefore  hoped  there  was 
life  in  the  body  it  contained.  I then  took  her  into  my 
arms,  and  treading  a step  backwards  with  her,  I put  out 
my  lamp;  however,  having  her  in  my  arms,  I conveyed  her 
through  the  doorway  in  the  dark  into  my  grotto  ; here  I 
laid  her  upon  my  bed,  and  then  ran  out  for  my  lamp. 

This,  thinks  I,  is  an  amazing  adventure.  How  could 
Patty  come  here,  and  dressed  in  silk  and  whalebone,  too  ! 
sure  that  is  not  the  reigning  fashion  in  England  now. 
But  my  dream  said  she  was  dead.  Why  truly,  says  I,  so 
she  seems  to  be.  But  be  it  so,  she  is  warm.  Whether  this 
is  the  place  for  persons  to  inhabit  after  death  or  not,  I can- 
not tell  (for  I see  there  are  people  here,  though  I do  not 
know  them) ; but  be  it  as  it  will,  she  feels  as  flesh  and 
blood ; and  if  I but  bring  her  to  stir  and  act  again  as  my 
wife,  wdiat  matters  it  to  me  what  she  is  ! It  will  be  a great 
blessing  and  comfort  to  me,  for  she  never  would  have  come 
to  this  very  spot  but  for  my  good. 

Top-full  of  these  thoughts,  I re-entered  my  grotto,  shut 
my  door,  and  lighted  my  lamp  ; when  going  to  my  Patty, 
(as  I delighted  to  fancy  her),  I thought  I saw  her  eyes  stir 
a little.  I then  set  the  lamp  further  off,  for  fear  of  offend- 
ing them  if  she  should  look  up  ; and  warming  the  last  glass 
I had  reserved  of  my  Madeira,  I carried  it  to  her,  but  she 
never  stirred.  I now  supposed  the  fall  had  absolutely 
killed  her,  and  wras  prodigiously  grieved,  when  laying  my 
hand  on  her  breast  I perceived  the  fountain  of  life  had 
some  motion.  This  gave  me  infinite  pleasure ; so  not  des- 
pairing, I dipped  my  finger  in  the  wine,  and  moistened  her 
lips  with  it  two  or  three  times,  and  I imagined  they  opened 
a little.  Upon  this  methought  me,  and  taking  a teaspoon, 
gently  poured  a few  drops  of  wine  by  that  means  into  her 
mouth.  Finding  she  swallowed  it,  I poured  in  another 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN. 


85 


spoonful,  and  another,  till  I brought  her  to  herself  so  well 
as  to  be  able  to  sit  up.  All  this  I did  by  a glimmering 
light,  which  the  lamp  afforded  from  a distant  part  of  the 
room  where  I had  placed  it,  as  I have  said,  out  of  her 
sight. 

I then  spoke  to  her  and  asked  her  divers  questions,  as 
if  she  had  really  been  Patty,  and  understood  me  ; in  return 
of  which  she  uttered  a language  I had  no  idea  of,  though  in 
the  most  musical  tone,  and  with  the  sweetest  accent  I had 
ever  heard.  It  grieved  me  I could  not  understand  her. 
However,  thinking  she  might  like  to  be  upon  her  feet,  I 
went  to  lift  her  off  the  bed,  when  she  felt  to  my  touch  in 
the  oddest  manner  possible  ; for  while  in  one  respect  it  was 
as  though  she  had  been  cased  in  whalebone,  it  was  as  soft 
and  warm  as  if  she  had  been  naked.* 

I then  took  her  in  my  arms  and  carried  her  into  my 
antechamber  again  ; where  I would  fain  have  entered  into 
conversation  with  her,  but  found'  she  and  I could  make  noth- 
ing of  it  together,  unless  we  could  understand  one  another’s 
speech.  It  is  very  strange  my  dream  should  have  prepos- 
sessed me  so  much  of  Patty,  and  of  the  alteration  of  her 
countenance,  that  I could  by  no  means  persuade  myself  the 
person  I had  with  me  was  not  she  ; though,  upon  a delibe- 
rate comparison,  Patty,  as  pleasing  as  she  always  was  to  my 
taste,  would  no  more  come  up  to  this  fair  creature,  than  a 
coarse  ale-wife  would  to  Venus  herself. 


* The  flying  apparatus  of  Wilkins’s  newly  discovered  people  was  called 
a graundee , and  consisted  of  a natural  investment  like  delicate  silk  and 
whalebone,  which  flew  open  at  pleasure,  and  thus  furnished  its  possessor 
with  wings  or  a dress,  according  to  the  requirement  of  the  moment.  Pe- 
ter’s future  wife  had  been  sporting  in  the  air  with  some  other  young  dam- 
sels, one  of  whom  happening  to  brush  too  strongly  against  her,  as  they 
stooped  among  some  trees,  had  occasioned  the  accident  which  was  the 
'•Ruse  of  his  good  fortune. 


86 


PETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


You  may  imagine  we  stared  heartily  at  each  other,  and 
I doubted  not  but  she  wondered  as  much  as  I by  what 
means  we  came  so  near  each  other.  I offered  her  every- 
thing in  my  grotto  which  I thought  might  please  her,  some 
of  which  she  gratefully  received,  as  appeared  by  her  looks 
and  behaviour.  But  she  avoided  my  lamp,  and  always 
placed  her  back  towards  it.  I observing  that,  and  ascrib- 
ing it  to  her  modesty,  in  my  company,  let  her  have  her  will, 
and  took  care  to  set  it  in  such  a position  myself  as  seemed 
agreeable  to  her,  though  it  deprived  me  of  a prospect  I very 
much  admired. 

After  we  had  sat  a good  while,  now  and  then,  I may  say, 
chattering  to  one  another,  she  got  up  and  took  a turn  or  two 
about  the  room.  When  I saw  her  in  that  attitude,  her 
grace  and  motion  perfectly  charmed  me,  and  her  shape  was 
incomparable ; but  the  strangeness  of  her  dress  put  me  to 
my  trumps,  to  conceive  either  what  it  was,  or  how  it  was 
put  on. 

Well,  we  supped  together,  and  I set  the  best  of  every- 
thing I had  before  her,  nor  could  either  of  us  forbear  speak- 
ing in  our  own  tongue,  though  we  were  sensible  neither  of 
us  understood  the  other.  After  supper  I gave  her  some  of 
my  cordials,  for  which  she  showed  great  tokens  of  thankful- 
ness, and  often,  in  her  way,  by  signs  and  gestures,  which 
were  very  far  from  being  insignificant,  expressed  her  grati- 
tude for  my  kindness.  When  supper  had  been  some  time 
over,  I showed  her  my  bed  and  made  signs  for  her  to  go  to 
it ; but  she  seemed  very  shy  of  that,  till  I showed  her  where 
I meant  to  lie  myself,  b^  pointing  to  myself,  then  to  that, 
and  again  pointing  to  her  and  to  my  bed.  When  at  length 
I had  made  this  matter  intelligible  to  her,  she  lay  down 
very  composedly ; and  after  I had  taken  care  of  my  fire,  and 
set  the  things  we  had  been  using  for  supper  in  their  places, 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN. 


8? 


I laid  myself  down  too  ; for  I could  have  no  suspicious 
thoughts,  or  fear  of  danger  from  a form  so  excellent. 

I treated  her  for  some  time  with  all  the  respect  imagi- 
nable, and  never  suffered  her  to  do  the  least  part  of  my 
work.  It  was  very  inconvenient  to  both  of  us  only  to  know 
each  other’s  meaning  by  signs  ; but  I could  not  be  other- 
wise than  pleased  to  see,  that  she  endeavoured  all  in  her 
power  to  learn  to  talk  like  me.  Indeed  I was  not  behind- 
hand with  her  in  that  respect,  striving  all  I could  to  imitate 
her.  What  I all  the  while  wondered  at  was,  she  never 
showed  the  least  disquiet  at  her  confinement ; for  I kept  my 
door  shut  at  first,  through  fear  of  losing  her,  thinking  she 
would  have  taken  an  opportunity  to  run  away  from  me.  for 
little  did  I then  think  she  could  fly. 

After  my  new  love  had  been  with  me  a fortnight,  find- 
ing my  water  ran  low,  I was  greatly  troubled  at  the  thought 
of  quitting  her  at  any  time  to  go  for  more  ; and  having 
hinted  it  to  her  with  seeming  uneasiness,  she  could  not  for 
awhile  fathom  my  meaning  ; but  when  she  saw  me  much 
confused,  she  came  at  length,  by  the  many  signs  I made,  to 
imagine  it  was  my  concern  for  her  which  made  me  so ; 
whereupon  she  expressively  enough  signified  I might  be 
easy,  for  she  did  not  fear  anything  happening  to  her  in  my 
absence.  On  this,  as  well  as  I could  declare  my  meaning, 
I entreated  her  not  to  go  away  before  my  return.  As  soon 
as  she  understood  what  I signified  to  her  by  actions,  she  sat 
down  with  her  arms  across,  leaning  her  head  against  the 
wall  to  assure  me  she  would  not  stir.  However,  as  I had 
before  nailed  a cord  to  the  outside  of  the  door,  I tied  that 
for  caution’s  sake  to  a tree,  for  fear  of  the  worst ; but  I be- 
lieve she  had  not  the  least  design  of  removing. 

I took  my  boat,  net,  and  water-cask,  as  usual ; desirous 
of  bringing  her  home  a fresh-fish  dinner  ; and  succeeded  so 


88 


PETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


well  as  to  catch  enough  for  several  good  meals,  and  to  spare 
What  remained  I salted,  and  found  she  liked  that  better 
than  the  fresh,  after  a few  days’  salting  : though  she  did  not 
so  well  approve  of  that  I had  formerly  pickled  and  dried. 
As  my  salt  grew  very  low,  though  I had  used  it  very  spar- 
ingly, I now  resolved  to  try  making  some  ; and  the  next 
summer  I effected  it. 

Thus  we  spent  the  remainder  of  the  winter  together,  till 
the  days  began  to  be  light  enough  for  me  to  walk  abroad  a 
little  in  the  middle  of  them  : for  I was  now  under  no  appre- 
hension of  her  leaving  me  ; as  she  had  before  this  time  so 
many  opportunities  of  doing  so,  but  never  once  attempted  it. 

When  the  weather  cleared  up  a little,  by  the  lengthen- 
ing of  daylight,  I took  courage  one  afternoon  to  invite  her 
to  walk  with  me  to  the  lake  ; but  she  sweetly  excused  her- 
self from  it  whilst  there  was  such  a frightful  glare  of  light, 
as  she  said  ; but,  looking  out  of  the  door,  told  me  if  I would 
not  go  out  of  the  wood  she  would  accompany  me  : so  we 
agreed  to  take  a turn  only  there.  I first  went  myself  over 
the  stile  at  the  door,  and  thinking  it  rather  too  high  for  her, 
I took  her  in  my  arms*  and  lifted  her  over.  But  even  when 
I had  her  in  this  manner,  I knew  not  what  to  make  of  her 
clothing,  it  sat  so  true  and  close  ; but  seeing  her  by  a stead- 
ier and  truer  light  in  the  grove,  though  a heavy  gloomy  one, 
than  my  light  had  afforded,  I begged  she  would  let  me  know 
of  what  silk  or  other  composition  her  garment  was  made. 
She  smiled  and  asked  me  if  mine  was  not  the  same  under 
my  jacket.  u No,  lady,”  says  I,  u I have  nothing  but  my 
skin  under  my  clothes.”  a Why  what  do  you  mean  ?”  re- 
plies she,  somewhat  tartly ; u but  indeed  I was  afraid  some- 
thing was  the  matter,  by  that  nasty  covering  you  wear,  that 
you  might  not  be  seen.  Are  not  you  a glumm  ?”*  u Yes,’ 


* A man. 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN 


89 


says  I,  “ fair  creature.”  (Here,  though  you  may  conceive 
she  spoke  part  English,  part  her  own  country  tongue,  and  I 
the  same,  as  we  best  understood  each  other,  yet  I shall  give 
you  our  discourse  word  for  word  in  plain  English.)  c:  Then,” 
says  she,  “I  am  afraid  you  must  have  been  a very  bad  man, 
and  have  been  crashee,*  which  I should  be -very  sorry  to 
hear.”  I told  her  I believed  we  were  none  of  us  so  good  as 

e might  be,  but  I hoped  my  faults  had  not  at  most  exceeded 
other  men’s ; but  I had  suffered  abundance  of  hardships  in 
my  time,  and  that  at  last  Providence  having  settled  me  in 
this  spot,  from  whence  I had  no  prospect  of  ever  departing, 
it  was  none  of  the  least  of  its  mercies  to  bring  to  my  know- 
ledge and  company  the  most  exquisite  piece  of  all  his  works 
in  her,  which  I should  acknowledge  as  long  as  I lived.  She 
was  surprised  at  this  discourse,  and  asked  me  (if  I did  not 
mean  to  impose  upon  her,  and  was  indeed  an  ingcrasliee 
gluminf),  why  I should  tell  her  I had  no  prospect  of  depart- 
ing from  hence  ? u Have  not  you,”  says  she,  u the  same 
prospect  that  I or  any  other  person  has  of  departing?  Sir,” 
added  she,  66  you  don’t  do  well,  and  really  I fear  you  are  slit, 
or  you  would  not  wear  this  nasty  cumbersome  coat  (taking 
hold  of  my  jacket  sleeve),  if  you  were  not  afraid  of  showing 
the  signs  of  a bad  life  upon  your  natural  clothing.” 

I could  not  for  my  heart  imagine  what  way  there  was  to 
get  out  of  my  dominions ; but  certainly,  thought  I,  there 
must  be  some  way  or  other,  or  she  would  not  be  so  peremp- 
tory. And  as  to  my  jacket,  and  showing  myself  in  my 
natural  clothing,  I profess  she  made  me  blush  ; and,  but  for 
the  shame,  I would  have  stripped  to  the  skin  to  have  satisfied 
her.  u But,  madam,”  says  I,  u pray  pardon  me,  for  you  really 
are  mistaken ; I have  examined  every  nook  and  corner  of 

* Slit ; — a punishment  inflicted  on  the  wings,  or  graundee , of  criminals. 

f A man  whose  wings  had  not  been  slit. 


90 


VETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


this  new  world  in  which  we  now  are,  and  can  find  no  possi- 
ble  outlet ; nay,  even  by  the  same  way  I came  in,  I am  sure 
it  is  impossible  to  get  out  again.”  Why,”  says  she,”  what 
outlets  have  you  searched  for,  or  what  way  can  you  expect 
out  but  the  way  you  came  in?  and  why  is  that  impossible 
to  return  by  again  ? If  you  are  not  slit,  is  not  the  air  open 
to  you  ? will  not  the  sky  admit  you  to  patrol  in  it  as  well  as 
other  people  ? I tell  you,  sir,  I fear  you  have  been  slit  for 
your  crimes ; and  though  you  have  been  so  good  to  me  that 
I cannot  help  loving  of  you  heartily  for  it,  yet,  if  I thought 
you  had  been  slit,  I would  not,  nay,  could  not,  stay  a mo- 
ment longer  with  you ; no,  though  it  should  break  my  heart 
to  leave  you !” 

I found  myself  now  in  a strange  quandary,  longing  to 
know  what  she  meant  by  being  slit,  and  had  a hundred 
strange  notions  in  my  head  whether  I was  slit  or  not ; for 
though  I knew  what  the  word  naturally  signified  well  enough, 
yet  in  what  manner,  or  by  what  figure  of  speech  she  applied 
it  to  me,  I had  no  idea  of.  But  seeing  her  look  a little 
angrily  upon  me,  “ Pray,  madam,”  says  I,  “ do  not  be  offended 
if  I take  the  liberty  to  ask  you  what  you  mean  by  the  word 
crashee,  so  often  repeated  by  you,  for  I am  an  utter  stranger 
to  what  you  mean  by  it  ?”  “ Sir,”  says  she,  “ pray  answer 

me  first  how  came  you  here  ?”  u Madam,”  replied  I,  16  will 
you  please  to  take  a walk  to  the  verge  of  the  wood,  and  I 
will  show  you  the  very  passage  ?”  “ Sir,”  says  she,  Cl  I per- 

fectly know  the  range  of  the  rocks  all  around,  and  by  the 
least  description,  without  going  to  see  them,  can  tell  from 
which  you  descended.”  u In  truth,”  said  I,  u most  charming 
lady,  I descended  from  no  rock  at  all ; nor  would  I for  a 
thousand  worlds  attempt  what  could  not  be  accomplished 
but  by  my  destruction.”  “ Sir,”  says  she,  in  some  anger. 
u it  is  false,  and  you  impose  on  me.”  u I declare  to  you,” 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN 


91 


says  I,  “ madam,  what  I tell  you  is  strictly  true  ; I never 
was  near  the  summit  of  any  of  the  surrounding  rocks  or  any- 
thing like  it ; but  as  you  are  not  far  from  the  verge  of  the 
wood,  be  so  good  as  to  step  a little  further,  and  I will  show 
you  my  entrance  in  hither.”  “ Well”’  says  she,  “ now  this 
odious  dazzle  of  light  is  lessened,  I do  not  care  if  I do  go 
with  you.” 

When  we  came  far  enough  to  see  the  bridge,  “ There 
madam,”  says  I,  “ there  is  my  entrance,  where  the  sea  pours 
into  this  lake  from  yonder  cavern.”  “ It  is  not  possible,” 
says  she ; “ this  is  another  untruth  ; and  as  I see  you  would 
deceive  me  and  are  not  to  be  believed,  farewell,  I must  be 
gone.  But  hold,”  says  she,  “ let  me  ask  you  one  thing  more, 
that  is,  by  what  means  did  you  come  through  that  cavern  ? 
you  could  not  have  used  to  have  come  over  the  rock.”  “ Bless 
me,  madam,”  says  I,  “ do  you  think  I and  my  boat  could 
fly?  Come  over  the  rock,  did  you  say?  No,  madam,  I 
sailed  from  the  great  sea,  the-  main  ocean,  in  my  boat, 
through  that  cavern  into  this  very  lake  here.”  “ What  do 
you  mean  by  your  boat  ?”  says  she ; “ you  seem  to  make 
two  things  of  your  boat  you  say  you  sailed  with,  and  your- 
self.” “ I do  so,”  replied  I,  “for,  madam,  I take  myself  to 
be  good  flesh  and  blood,  but  my  boat  is  made  of  wood  and 
other  materials.”  “ Is  it  so?”  says  she;  “and  pray  where 
is  this  boat  that  is  made  of  wood  and  other  materials  ? under 
your  jacket?”  “ Lord,  madam,”  says  I,  “you  put  me  in  fear 
that  you  were  angry,  but  now  I hope  you  only  joke  with  me  : 
what,  put  a boat  under  my  jacket ! no,  madam,  my  boat  is 
in  the  lake.”  “What!  more  untruths?”  says  she.  “No, 
madam,”  I replied  ; “ if  'you  would  be  satisfied  of  what  I 
say,  every  word  of  which  is  as  true  as  that  my  boat  now  is 
in  the  lake,  pray  walk  with  me  thither,  and  make  your  own 
eyes  judges  what  sincerity  I speak  with.”  To  this  she 


02 


PETER  WILKINS*  S DISCOVERY 


agreed,  it  growing  dusky ; but  assured  me,  if  I did  not  give 
her  good  satisfaction,  I should  see  her  no  more. 

We  arrived  at  the  lake,  and  going  to  my  wet  doclf, 
“ Now,  madam,”  says  I,  “pray  satisfy  yourself  whether  I 
spake  true  or  not.”  She  looked  at  my  boat,  but  could  not 
yet  frame  a proper  notion  of  it.  Says  I,  “ Madam,  in  this 
very  boat  I sailed  from  the  main  sea  through  that  very 
cavern  into  this  lake  ; and  shall  at  last  think  myself  the 
happiest  of  all  men,  if  you  continue  with  me,  love  me,  and 
credit  me  ; and  I promise  you  I will  never  deceive  you,  but 
think  my  life  happily  spent  in  your  service.”  I found  she 
was  hardly  content  yet  to  believe  what  I told  her  of  my 
boat  to  be  true,  until  I stepped  into  it,  and  pushing  from 
the  shore,  took  my  oars  in  my  hand,  and  sailed  along  the 
lake  by  her  as  she  walked  on  the  shore.  At  last  she  seemed 
so  well  reconciled  to  me  and  my  boat,  that  she  desired  I 
would  take  her  in.  I immediately  did  so,  and  we  sailed  a 
good  way  ; and  as  we  returned  to  my  dock,  I described  to 
her  how  I procured  the  water  we  drank,  and  brought  it  to 
shore  in  that  vessel. 

“ Well,”  says  she,  “ I have  sailed,  as  you  call  it,  many  a 
mile  in  my  lifetime,  but  never  in  such  a thing  as  this.  I 
own  it  will  serve  very  well  where  one  has  a great  many 
things  to  carry  from  place  to  place  ; but  to  be  labouring 
thus  at  an  oar  when  one  intends  pleasure  in  sailing,  is,  in 
my  mind,  a most  ridiculous  piece  of  slavery.”  “ Why,  pray, 
madam,  how  would  you  have  me  sail  ; for  getting  into  the 
boat  only  will  not  carry  us  this  way  or  that,  without  using 
some  force.”  “ But,”  says  she,  “ pray  where  did  you  get 
this  boat,  as  you  call  it?”  “ Oh  ! madam,”  says  I,  “ that  is 
too  long  and  fatal  a story  to  begin  upon  now ; this  boat  was 
made  many  thousand  miles  from  hence,  among  a people 
coal  black,  a quite  different  sort  from  us  ; and  when  I first 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN. 


93 


had  it,  I little  thought  of  seeing  this  country  ; hut  I will 
make  a faithful  relation  of  all  to  you  when  we  come  home.” 
Indeed  I began  to  wish  heartily  we  were  there,  for  it  grew 
into  the  night ; and  having  strolled  so  far  without  my  gun, 
I was  afraid  of  what  I had  before  seen  and  heard,  and 
hinted  our  return  ; but  I found  my  motion  was  disagreeable 
to  her,  and  so  I dropped  it. 

I now  perceived,  and  wondered  at  it,  that  the  later  it 
grew,  the  more  agreeable  it  seemed  to  her  ; and  as  I had 
now  brought  her  into  a good  humour  again  by  seeing  and 
sailing  in  my  boat,  I was  not  willing  to  prevent  its  increase. 
I told  her,  if  she  pleased  we  would  land,  and  when  I had 
docked  my  boat,  I would  accompany  her  where  and  as  long 
as  she  liked.  As  we  talked  and  walked  by  the  lake,  she 
made  a little  run  before  me,  and  jumped  into  it.  Perceiv- 
ing this,  I cried  out ; whereupon  she  merrily  called  on  me 
to  follow  her.  The  light  was  then  so  dim  as  prevented  my 
having  more  than  a confused  sight  of  her,  when  she  jumped 
in  ; and  looking  earnestly  after  her,  I could  discern  nothing- 
more  than  a small  boat  on  the  water,  which  skimmed  along 
at  so  great  a rate  that  I almost  lost  sight  of  it  presently ; 
but  running  along  the  shore  for  fear  of  losing  her,  I met 
her  gravely  walking  to  meet  me,  and  then  had  entirely  lost 
sight  of  the  boat  on  the  lake.  li  This,”  says  she,  accosting 
me  with  a smile,  u is  my  way  of  sailing,  which  I perceive 
by  the  fright  you  were  in,  you  are  altogether  unacquainted 
with  ; and  as  you  tell  me  you  came  from  so  many  thousand 
miles  off,  it  is  possible  you  may  be  made  differently  from 
me  ; but  surely  we  are  the  part  of  the  creation  which  has 
had  most  care  bestowed  upon  it ; and  I suspect  from  all  your 
discourse,  to  which  I have  been  very  attentive,  it  is  possible 
you  may  no  more  be  able  to  fly  than  to  sail  as  I do.”  “ No, 
charming  creature,”  says  I,  “ that  I cannot,  I will  assure 


94 


PETER  WILKINS'S  DISCOVERY 


you.”  She  then,  stepping  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  for  the 
advantage  of  a descent  before  her,  sprang  up  into  the  air, 
and  away  she  went,  further  than  my  eyes  could  follow  her. 

I was  quite  astonished.  So,  says  I,  then  all  is  over,  all 
a delusion  which  I have  so  long  been  in,  a mere  phantom  ! 
better  had  it  been  for  me  never  to  have  seen  her,  than  thus 
to  lose  her  again.  But  what  could  I expect  had  she  staid  ? 
for  it  is  plain  she  is  no  human  composition.  But,  says  I, 
she  felt  like  flesh  too,  when  I lifted  her  out  at  the  door.  I 
had  but  very  little  time  for  reflection  ; for  in  about  ten 
minutes  after  she  had  left  me  in  this  mixture  of  grief  and 
amazement,  she  alighted  just  by  me  on  her  feet. 

Her  return,  as  she  plainly  saw,  filled  me  with  a trans- 
port not  to  be  concealed,  and  which,  as  she  afterwards  told 
me,  was  very  agreeable  to  her.  Indeed,  I was  some  mo- 
ments in  such  an  agitation  of  mind,  from  these  unparalleled 
incidents,  that  I was  like  one  thunderstruck ; but  coming 
presently  to  myself,  and  clasping  her  in  my  arms  wTith  as 
much  love  and  passion  as  I was  capable  of  expressing, 
“ Are  you  returned  again,  kind  angel,”  said  I,  “ to  bless  a 
wretch  who  can  only  be  happy  in  adoring  you  ? Can  it  be 
that  you,  who  have  so  many  advantages  over  me,  should 
quit  all  the  pleasures  that  nature  has  formed  you  for,  and 
all  your  friends  and  relations,  to  take  an  asylum  in  my 
arms  ? But  I here  make  you  a tender  of  all  I am  able  to 
bestow — my  love  and  constancy.”  “ Come,  come,”  says  she, 
no  more  raptures.  I find  you  are  a worthier  man  than  I 
thought  I had  reason  to  take  you  for ; and  I beg  your  par- 
don for  my  distrust,  whilst  I was  ignorant  of  your  perfec- 
tions ; but  now  I verily  believe  all  you  said  is  true ; and  I 
promise  you,  as  you  have  seemed  so  much  to  delight  in  me, 
I will  never  quit  you,  till  death  or  other  as  fatal  accident 
shall  part  us.  But  we  will  now,  if  you  choose,  go  home  ; for 


OF  A FLYING  WOMAN. 


95 


I know  you  have  been  some  time  uneasy  in  this  gloom,  though 
agreeable  to  me.  For,  giving  my  eyes  the  pleasure*  of 
looking  eagerly  on  you,  it  conceals  my  blushes  from  your 
sight.” 

In  this  manner,  exchanging  mutual  endearments  and 
soft  speeches,  hand  in  hand,  we  arrived  at  the  grotto. 


<®il  3Mas  null  tljt  'gitrasitt 


FROM  LE  SAGE. 

Gil  Blas  is  a book  which  makes  a great  impression  in  youth  with  par- 
ticular passages ; becomes  thoroughly  appreciated  only  by  the  maturest 
knowledge;  and  remains  one  of  the  greatest  of  favourites,  with  old  people 
who  are  wise  and  good-natured.  Every  body  knows  the  Robbers’  Cave, 
the  Beggar  who  asks  alms  with  a loaded  musket,  the  Archbishop  who 
invited  a candour  which  he  could  not  bear,  the  dramatic  surprise  and 
exquisite  lesson  of  the  story  transcribed  into  the  present  volume ; and 
perhaps  we  all  have  a general,  entertaining  recollection  of  authors,  and 
actresses,  and  great  men.  But  the  hundreds  of  delicate  strokes  at 
every  turn,  the  quiet,  arch  reference  (never  failing)  to  the  most  hidden 
sources  of  action  and  nicest  evidences  of  character,  require  an  ex- 
perienced taste  and  discernment  to  do  them  justice.  When  they  obtain 
this,  they  complete  the  charm  of  the  reader  by  flattering  his  under- 
standing. The  hero  (strange  critical  term  for  individuals  the  most  un- 
heroical!)  is  justly  popular  with  all  the  world,  because  he  resembles 
them  in  their  mixture  of  sense  and  nonsense,  craft  and  credulity, 
selfishness  and  good  qualities.  We  have  a sneaking  regard  for  him  on 
our  weak  side ; while  we  flatter  ourselves  we  should  surpass  him  on 
the  strong.  Then  how  pleasant  the  hypocrisy  of  the  false  hermit 
Lamela,  reconciled  to  us  by  his  animal  spirits;  how  consolatory  (if 
extension  of  evil  can  console)  the  bile  and  melancholy  of  the  great 
minister,  the  Count-Duke,  who  always  sees  a spectre  before  him ; and 
how  charming,  as  completing  the  round  of  its  universality,  the  alterna- 
tions from  town  to  country,  from  solitudes  to  courts,  and  the  settlement 
of  the  once  simple  Gil  Bias,  now  Signior  de  Santillane,  in  his  comforta-^ 
ble  farm  at  Lirias,  over  the  door  of  which  was  to  be  written  a farewell 
to  vicissitude : — 


GIL  BIAS  AND  THE  PARASITE. 


97 


Inveni  portum.  Spes  et  Fortuna,  valete. 

Sat  me  lusisti : luclite  nunc  alios. 

My  port  is  found.  Farewell,  ye  freaks  of  chance ; 

The  dance  ye  led  me,  now  let  others  dance. 

Le  Sage  is  accused,  like  Moliere,  of  haying  stolen  all  his  good  things 
from  Spain.  Do  not  believe  it.  Rest  assured,  that  -whatever  he  stole 
he  turned  to  the  choicest  account  with  his  own  genius ; otherwise  the 
Spaniards  would  have  got  the  fame  for  his  works,  and  not  he.  Xobody 
stole  Cervantes.  Le  Sage  was  a good,  quiet  man,  very  deaf,  who  lived 
in  a small  house  at  Boulogne  with  a bit  of  trellised  garden  at  the  back, 
in  which  he  used  to  walk  up  and  down  while  he  composed.  He  had  a 
son,  a celebrated  actor,  who  came  to  live  with  him;  and  these  two 
were  as  fast  friends,  as  they  were  honest  and  pleasant  men. 

But  if  every  body  knows  the  adventure  of  Gil  Bias  with  the 
Parasite,  why,  it  may  be  asked,  repeat  it?  For  the  reason  given  in  the 
Preface, — because  there  are  passages  in  books  which  readers  love  to  see 
repeated,  for  the  very  sake  of  their  intimacy  with  them.  It  is  with 
fine  passages  in  books  as  with  songs.  Some  we  like,  because  they  are 
good  and  new ; and  some,  because  they  are  veiy  good  indeed,  and  old 
acquaintances.  Besides,  there  are  hundreds  of  readers  who  only  just 
recollect  them  well  enough  to  desire  to  know  them  better. 

It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind,  that  our  hero  has  just  set  out  in  life ; and 
that  this  is  his  first  journey  since  he  left  school  at  Oviedo. 

T ARRIVED  in  safety  at  Pennaflor,  and  halting  at  the 
gate  of  an  inn  that  made  a tolerable  appearance,  I no 
sooner  alighted,  than  the  landlord  came  out,  and  received 
me  with  great  civility ; he  untied  my  portmanteau  with  his 
own  hands,  and  throwing  it  on  his  shoulder,  conducted  me 
into  a room,  while  one  of  his  servants  led  my  mule  into  the 
stable.  This  innkeeper,  the  greatest  talker  of  the  Asturias, 
and  as  ready  to  relate  his  own  affairs  without  being  asked, 
as  to  pry  into  those  of  another,  told  me  his  name  was 
Andrew  Corcuelo  ; that  he  had  served  many  years  in  the 
king’s  army  in  quality  of  a serjeant ; and  had  quitted  the 
service  fifteen  months  ago  to  marry  a damsel  of  Castropol, 
5 


98 


GIL  2) LAS  AND  THE  PARASITE. 


who  (though  she  was  a little  swarthy)  knew  very  well  how 
to  turn  the  penny.  lie  said  a thousand  other  things,  which 
I could  have  dispensed  with  the  hearing  of;  but  after 
having  made  me  his  confidant,  he  thought  he  had  a right 
to  exact  the  same  condescension  of  me,  and  accordingly 
asked  whence  I came,  whither  I wTas  going,  and  what  I was. 
I was  obliged  to  answer  article  by  article  ; for  he  accom- 
panied every  question  by  a profound  bow,  and  begged  me 
to  excuse  his  curiosity  with  such  a respectful  air,  that  I 
could  not  fefuse  to  satisfy  him  in  every  particular.  This 
engaged  me  in  a long  conversation  with  him,  and  gave  me 
occasion  to  mention  my  design,  and  the  reason  I had  foi 
disposing  of  my  mule,  that  I might  take  the  opportunity 
of  a carrier.  He  approved  of  my  intention,  though  not  in 
a very  succinct  manner;  for  he  represented  all  the  trouble- 
some accidents  that  might  befall  me  on  the  road  : he  re- 
counted many  dismal  stories  of  travellers ; and  I began  to 
be  afraid  he  would  never  have  done.  He  concluded  at 
length  however  with  telling  me,  that  if  I had  a mind  to 
sell  my  mule,  he  w~as  acquainted  with  a very  honest  jockey 
who  would  buy  her.  I assured  him  he  would  oblige  me  in 
sending  for  him ; upon  which  he  went  in  quest  of  him  im- 
mediately with  great  eagerness.  It  was  not  long  before  he 
returned  with  his  man.  whom  he  introduced  to  me  as  a 
person  of  exceeding  honesty,  and  we  went  into  the  yard  all 
together,  where  my  mule  was  produced,  and  passed  and 
repassed  before  the  jockey,  who  examined  her  from  head  to 
foot,  and  did  not  fail  to  speak  very  disadvantageous^  of 
her.  I own  there  was  not  much  to  be  said  in  her  praise ; 
but,  however,  had  it  been  the  pope’s  mule,  he  would  have 
found  some  defects  in  her.  He  assured  me,  that  she  had 
all  the  defects  a mule  could  have  ; and  to  convince  me  of 
his  veracity,  appealed  to  the  landlord,  who,  doubtless,  had 


GIL  BIAS  AND  TIIE  PARASITE. 


99 


his  reasons  for  supporting  his  friend’s  assertions.  “ Well/ 
said  the  dealer  with  an  air  of  indifference,  “ how  much 
money  do  you  expect  for  this  wretched  animal  After  the 
eulogium  he  had  bestowed  on  her,  and  the  attestation  of 
Signior  Corcuelo,  whom  I believed  to  be  a man  of  honesty 
and  understanding,  I would  have  given  my  mule  for  noth- 
ing; and  therefore  told  him  I would  rely  on  his  integrity; 
bidding  him  appraise  the  beast  in  his  own  conscience,  and 
I would  stand  to  the  valuation.  Upon  this  he  assumed  the 
man  of  honour ; and  replied,  that  in  engaging  his  con- 
science I took  him  on  the  weak  side.  In  good  sooth,  that 
did  not  seem  to  be  his  strong  side  ; for  instead  of  valuing 
her  at  ten  or  twelve  pistoles,  as  my  uncle  had  done,  he  fix- 
ed the  price  at  three  ducats ; which  I accepted  with  as 
much  joy  as  if  I had  made  an  excellent  bargain. 

After  having  so  advantageously  disposed  of  my  mule, 
the  landlord  conducted  me  to  a carrier,  who  was  to  set  out 
the  next  day  for  Astorga.  This  muleteer  let  me  know  that 
he  should  set  out  by  day-break,  and  promised  to  awake  me 
in  time,  after  we  had  agreed  upon  the  price,  as  Wcdl  for  the 
hire  of  a mule,  as  my  board  on  the  road  ; and  when  every- 
thing was  settled  between  us,  I returned  to  the  inn  with 
Corcuelo,  who,  by  the  way,  began  to  recount  the  carrier’s 
history.  He  told  me  every  circumstance  of  his  character 
in  town  ; in  short,  was  going  to  stupify  me  again  with  his 
intolerable  loquacity,  when,  luckily  for  me,  a man  of  pretty 
good  appearance  prevented  my  misfortune,  by  accosting  him 
with  great  civility.  I left  them  together,  and  went  on,  with- 
out suspecting  that  I had  the  least  concern  in  their  conver- 
sation. 

When  I arrived  at  the  inn,  I called  for  supper ; and  it 
being  g meagre  day,  was  fain  to  put  up  with  eggs ; which 
while  they  got  ready,  I made  up  to  my  landlady,  whom  I 


100 


GIL  BIAS  AND  THE  PARASITE. 


had  not  seen  before.  She  appeared  handsome  enough  ; and 
withal  so  sprightly  and  gay,  that  I should  have  concluded  (even 
if  her  husband  had  not  told  me  so)  that  her  house  was  pret- 
ty well  frequented.  When  the  omelet  I had  bespoken  was 
ready,  I sat  down  to  table  by  myself ; and  had  not  yet 
swallowed  the  first  mouthful,  when  the  landlord  came  in, 
followed  by  the  man  who  had  stopt  him  in  the  street.  This 
cavalier,  who  wore  a long  sword,  and  seemed  to  be  about 
thirty  years  of  age,  advanced  towards  me  with  an  eager  air, 
saying,  “ Mr.  Student,  I am  informed  that  you  are  that  Signior 
Gil  131as  of  Santillane,  who  is  the  link  of  philosophy,  and 
ornament  of  Oviedo  ! Is  it  possible  that  you  are  that  mir- 
ror of  learning,  that  sublime  genius,  whose  reputation  is  so 
great  in  this  country?  You  know  not,”  continued  he,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  the  innkeeper  and  his  wife,  “ you  know 
not  what  you  possess  ! You  have  a treasure  in  your  house! 
Behold  in  this  young  gentleman,  the  eighth  wonder  of  the 
world  !”  Then  turning  to  me,  and  throwing  his  arms  about 
my  neck,  “ Forgive,”  cried  he,  “ my  transports  ! I cannot 
contain  the  joy  that  your  presence  creates.” 

I could  not  answer  for  some  time,  because  he  locked  me 
so  close  in  his  arms,  that  I was  almost  suffocated  for  want 
of  breath  ; and  it  was  not  till  I had  disengaged  my  head 
from  his  embrace,  that  I replied  u Signior  Cavalier,  I did 
not  think  my  name  was  known  at  Penaflor.”  “ How  ! 
known  !”  resumed  he  in  his  former  strain,  u we  keep  a reg- 
ister of  all  the  celebrated  names  within  twenty  leagues  of 
us.  You  in  particular  are  looked  upon  as  a prodigy  ; and  I 
don’t  at  all  doubt,  that  Spain  will  one  day  be  as  proud  of 
you,  as  Greece  was  of  her  Seven  Sages.”  These  words  were 
followed  by  a fresh  hug,  which  I was  forced  to  endure, 
though  at  the  risk  of  strangulation.  With  the  little  expe- 
rience I had,  I ought  not  to  have  been  the  dupe  of  his  pro- 


GIL  BIAS  AND  THE  PARASITE, 


101 


fessions  and  hyperbolical  compliments.  I ought  to  have 
known,  by  his  extravagant  flattery,  that  he  was  one  of  those 
parasites  which  abound  in  every  town,  and  who,  when  a 
stranger  arrives,  introduce  themselves  to  him,  in  order  to 
All  their  bellies  at  his  expense.  But  my  youth  and  vanity 
made  me  judge  otherwise.  My  admirer  appeared  to  me  so 
much  of  a gentleman,  that  I invited  him  to  take  a share  of 
my  supper.  u Ah,  with  all  my  soul/’  cried  he  ; 4 1 am  too 
much  obliged  to  my  kind  stars  for  having  thrown  me  in  the 
way  of  the  illustrious  Gil  Bias,  not  to  enjoy  my  good  for- 
tune as  long  as  I can  ! I have  no  great  appetite,”  pursued 
he,  u but  I will  sit  down  to  bear  you  company,  and  eat  a 
mouthful  purely  out  of  complaisance.” 

So  saying,  my  panegyrist  took  his  place  right  over 
against  me ; and  a cover  being  laid  for  him,  attacked  the 
omelet  as  voraciously  as  if  he  had  fasted  three  whole  days. 
By  his  complaisant  beginning  I foresaw  that  our  dish  would 
not  last  long  ; and  therefore  ordered  a second  ; which  they 
dressed  with  such  dispatch,  that  it  was  served  just  as  we — 
or  rather  he — had  made  an  end  of  the  first.  He  proceeded 
on  this  with  the  same  vigour ; and  found  means,  without 
losing  one  stroke  of  his  teeth,  to  overwhelm  me  with  praises 
during  the  whole  repast,  which  made  me  very  well  pleased 
with  my  sweet  self.  He  drank  in  proportion  to  his  eating ; 
sometimes  to  my  health,  sometimes  to  that  of  my  father 
and  mother,  whose  happiness  in  having  such  a son  as  me 
he  could  not  enough  admire.  All  the  while  he  plied  me 
with  wine,  and  insisted  upon  my  doing  him  justice,  while  I 
toasted  health  for  health ; a circumstance  which,  together 
with  his  intoxicating  flattery,  put  me  into  such  good 
humour,  that  seeing  our  second  omelet  half  devoured,  I 
asked  the  landlord  if  he  had  no  fish  in  the  house.  Signior 
Corcuelo,  who  in  all  likelihood  had  a fellow-feeling  with  the 


102 


GIL  LILAS  AND  THE  PARASITE. 


parasite,  replied,  “ I have  a delicate  trout ; but  those  who 
eat  it  must  pay  for  the  sauce  ; — ’tis  a bit  too  dainty  for  your 
palate,  I doubt.”  “ What  do  you  call  too  dainty?”  said  the 
sycophant,  raising  his  voice ; u you’re  a wiseacre,  indeed  ! 
Know,  that  there  is  nothing  in  this  house  too  good  for 
Signior  Gil  Bias  de  Santillane,  who  deserves  to  be  enter- 
tained like  a prince.” 

I was  pleased  at  his  laying  hold  of  the  landlord’s  last 
words,  in  which  he  prevented  me  ; who  finding  myself 
offended,  said  with  an  air  of  disdain,  u Produce  this  trout 
of  yours,  Gaffer  Corcuelo,  and  give  yourself  no  trouble 
about  the  consequence.”  This  was  what  the  innkeeper 
wanted.  He  got  it  ready,  and  served  it  up  in  a trice.  At 
sight  of  this  new  dish,  I could  perceive  the  parasite’s  eye 
sparkle  with  joy;  and  he  renewed  that  complaisance  — I 
mean  for  the  fish  — which  he  had  already  shown  for  the 
eggs.  At  last,  however,  he  was  obliged  to  give  out,  for 
fear  of  accident,  being  crammed  to  the  very  throat.  Hav- 
ing, therefore,  eaten  and  drank  his  bellyfull,  he  thought 
proper  to  conclude  the  farce,  by  rising  from  table,  and  ac- 
costing me  in  these  words  : — “ Signior  Gil  Bias,  I am  too 
well  satisfied  with  your  good  cheer,  to  leave  you  without 
offering  an  important  advice,  which  you  seem  to  have  great 
occasion  for.  Henceforth  beware  of  praise,  and  be  upon 
your  guard  against  everybody  you  do  not  know.  You  may 
meet  with  other  people  inclined  to  divert  themselves  with 
your  credulity, and  perhaps  to  push  things  still  further;  but 
don’t  be  duped  again,  nor  believe  yourself  (though  they 
should  swear  it)  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world.”  So  say- 
ing, he  laughed  in  my  face,  and  stalked  away. 

I was  as  much  affected  by  this  bite  as  I have  since  been 
by  misfortunes  of  far  greater  consequence.  I could  not  for- 
give myself  for  having  been  so  grossly  imposed  upon  ; or 


GIL  BLAS  AND  THE  PARASITE. 


103 


rather,  I was  shocked  to  find  my  pride  so  humbled. 
“ How  ! (said  I to  myself)  has  the  traitor,  then,  made  a jest 
of  me  ? His  design  in  accosting  my  landlord  in  the  street 
was  only  to  pump  him  ; or  perhaps  they  understand  one 
another.  Ah ! simple  Gil  Bias  ! Go  hang  thyself  for 
shame,  for  haying  given  such  rascals  an  opportunity  of 
turning  thee  into  ridicule  ! I suppose  they’ll  trump  up  a 
fine  story  of  this  affair,  which  will  reach  Oviedo,  and  doubt* 
less  do  thee  a great  deal  of  honour,  and  make  thy  parents 
repent  their  having  thrown  away  so  much  good  counsel  on 
an  ass.  Instead  of  exhorting  me  not  to  wrong  anybody, 
they  ought  to  have  cautioned  me  against  the  knavery  of  the 
world.” 

Chagrined  with  these  mortifying  reflections,  and  in- 
flamed with  resentment,  I locked  myself  in  my  chamber 
and  went  to  bed,  where,  however,  I did  not  sleep ; for 
before  I could  close  my  eyes,  the  carrier  came  to  let  me 
know  he  was  ready  to  set  out,  and  only  waited  for  me.  I 
got  up  instantly ; and  while  I put  on  my  clothes,  Corcuelo 
brought  me  a bill,  in  which,  I assure  you,  the  trout  was  not 
forgotten ; and  I was  not  only  obliged  to  gratify  his  exor- 
bitance, but  I had  also  the  mortification  to  perceive,  while 
I counted  the  money,  that  the  sarcastic  knave  remembered 
my  adventure.  After  having  paid  sauce  for  a supper  which 
I had  so  ill  digested,  I went  to  the  muleteer  with  my  bags, 
wishing  the  parasite,  the  innkeeper,  and  bis  inn,  at  the 


Xtitanitn  in  tljc  ISannhit  Clinmkr. 

FROM  THE  MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPIIO. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe,  a beautiful  little  woman  of  delicate  constitution  and 
sequestered  habits,  as  fond,  as  her  own  heroines,  of  lonely  sea-shores, 
picturesque  mountains,  and  poetical  meditations,  perfected  that  dis- 
covery of  the  capabilities  of  an  old  house  or  castle  for  exciting  a 
romantic  interest,  which  lay  ready  to  be  made  in  the  mind  of  every 
child  and  poet,  but  which  (if  Gray  did  not  put  it  into  his  head)  first 
suggested  itself  to  the  feudal  dilletanteism  of  Horace  Walpole.  Horace 
had  more  genius  in  him  than  his  contemporaries  gave  him  credit  for ; 
but  the  reputation  which  his  wit  obtained  him,  the  material  philosophy 
of  the  day,  and  the  pursuit  of  fashionable  amusement,  did  it  no  good. 
He  lost  sight  of  the  line  to  be  drawn  between  the  imposing  and  the  in- 
credible ; and  though  there  is  real  merit  in  the  Castle  of  Otranto , and 
even  grandeur  of  imagination,  yet  the  conversion  of  dreams  into  gross 
daylight  palpabilities,  which  nothing  short  of  iron-founders  could 
create — swords  that  take  a hundred  men  to  lift  them,  and  supernatural 
yet  substantial  helmets,  big  as  houses  and  actually  serving  for  prisons 
— turns  the  sublime  into  the  ridiculous,  and  has  completely  spoilt  an 
otherwise  interesting  narrative.  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  frightened  perhaps  by 
Walpole’s  failure  (for  this  great  mistress  of  Fear  was  too  often  a servant 
of  it),  went  to  another  extreme ; and  except  in  what  she  quoted  from 
other  story-tellers,  resolved  all  her  supernatural  effects  into  common- 
place causes.  Those  effects,  however,  while  they  lasted,  and  every 
thing  else  capable  of  frightening  people  out  of  their  wits — old  haunted 
houses  and  corridors,  mysterious  music,  faces  behind  curtains,  cowled 
and  guilty  monks,  inquisitors,  nuns,  places  to  comuxit  murders  in,  and 
the  murders  themselves — she  understood  to  perfection.  To  dress  these 
in  appropriate  circumstances,  she  possessed  also  the  eye  of  a painter  as 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


105 


well  as  the  feeling  of  a poetess.  She  conceived  to  a nicety  the  effect  of 
a storm  on  a landscape,  the  playing  of  a meteor  on  the  point  of  a spear, 
and  the  sudden  appearance  of  some  old  castle  to  which  travellers  have 
been  long  coming,  and  which  they  have  reasons  to  fear  living  in.  It 
has  been  objected  to  her  that  she  is  too  much  of  a melodramatic  writer, 
and  that  her  characters  are  inferior  to  her  circumstances;  the  back- 
ground (as  Hazlitt  says)  of  more  importance  than  the  figures.  This  in 
a great  measure  is  true;  but  she  has  painted  characters  also,  chiefly 
weak  ones,  as  in  the  querulous  duped  aunt  in  Udolpho , and  the  victim 
of  error,  St.  Pierre,  in  the  Romance  of  the  Forest.  It  must  be  consider- 
ed, however,  that  her  effects,  however  produced,  are  successful,  and 
greatly  successful ; and  that  Nature  herself  deals  in  precisely  such 
effects,  leaving  men  to  be  operated  upon  by  them  passively,  and  not 
to  play  the  chief  parts  in  the  process  by  means  of  their  characters. 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  brings  on  the  scene  Fear  and  Terror  themselves,  the 
grandeurs  of  the  known  world,  and  the  awes  of  the  unknown ; and  if 
human  beings  become  puppets  in  her  hands,  it  is  as  people  in  storm 
and  earthquake  are  puppets  in  the  hands  of  Nature. 

The  following  passage,  from  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho , is  one  of  the 
most  favourite  in  her  writings.  Mr.  Hazlitt  thinks  the  Provencal  tale  in 
it  “ the  greatest  treat  which  Mrs.  Radcliffe’s  pen  has  provided  for  the 
lovers  of  the  marvellous  and  terrible.”  Sir  Walter  Scott  says,  “The 
best  and  most  admired  specimen  of  her  art  is  the  mysterious  disappear- 
ance of  Ludovico,  after  having  undertaken  to  watch  for  a night  in  a 
haunted  apartment;  and  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  finely  wound  up  for 
some  strange  catastrophe,  by  the  admirable  ghost-story  which  he  is 
represented  as  perusing  to  amuse  his  solitude,  as  the  scene  closes  upon 
him.  Neither  can  it  be  denied,  that  the  explanation  afforded  of  this 
mysterious  accident  is  as  probable  as  romance  requires,  and  in  itself 
completely  satisfactory.” 

What  that  explanation  is,  the  reader  will  find  at  the  close  of  the 
extract. 

THE  count  gave  orders  for  the  north  apartments  to  be 
opened  and  prepared  for  the  reception  of  Ludovico  ; but 
Dorothee,  remembering  what  she  had  lately  witnessed  there, 
feared  to  obey ; and  not  one  of  the  other  servants  daring  to 
venture  thither,  the  rooms  remained  shut  up  till  the  time 


106 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


when  Ludovico  was  to  retire  thither  for  the  night,  an  hour 
for  which  the  whole  household  waited  with  the  greatest  im- 
patience. 

After  supper,  Ludovico,  by  the  order  of  the  count,  at- 
tended him  in  his  closet,  where  they  remained  alone  for  near 
half  an  hour,  and  on  leaving  which  his  lord  delivered  to  him 
a sword. 

44  It  has  seen  service  in  mortal  quarrels,”  said  the  count, 
jocosely,  44  you  will  use  it  honourably  no  doubt  in  a spiritual 
one.  To-morrow  let  me  hear  that  there  is  not  one  ghost 
remaining  in  the  chateau.” 

Ludovico  received  it  with  a respectful  bow.  44  You  shall 
be  obeyed,  my  lord,”  said  he  ; “I  will  engage  that  no  spectre 
shall  disturb  the  peace  of  the  chateau  after  this  night.” 

They  now  returned  to  the  supper-room,  where  the  count’s 
guests  awaited  to  accompany  him  and  Ludovico  to  the  north 
apartments ; and  Dorothee,  being  summoned  for  the  keys, 
delivered  them  to  Ludovico,  who  then  led  the  way,  followed 
by  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  chateau.  Having  reached 
the  back  staircase,  several  of  the  servants  shrunk  back  and 
refused  to  go  further,  but  the  rest  followed  him  to  the  top 
of  the  staircase,  where  a broad  landing-place  allowed  them 
to  flock  round  him,  wrhile  he  applied  the  key  to  the  door, 
dnring  which  they  wafched  him  with  as  much  eager  curiosity 
as  if  he  had  been  performing  some  magical  rite. 

Ludovico,  unaccustomed  to  the  lock,  could  not  turn  it, 
and  Dorothee,  who  had  lingered  far  behind,  was  called  for- 
ward, under  whose  hand  the  door  opened  slowly,  and  her 
eye  glancing  within  the  dusky  chamber,  she  uttered  a sud- 
den shriek  and  retreated.  At  this  signal  of  alarm  the 
greater  part  of  the  crowd  hurried  down,  and  the  count, 
Henri,  and  Ludovico  were  left  alone  to  pursue  the  inquiry, 
who  instantly  rushed  into  the  apartment,  Ludovico  with  a 


LUDOVICO  IN  TEE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


107 


drawn  sword,  which  he  had  just  time  to  draw  from  the  scab- 
bard, the  count  with  a lamp  in  his  hand,  and  Henry  carry- 
ing a basket  containing  provision  for  the  courageous  ad- 
venturer. 

Having  looked  hastily  round  the  first  room,  where  no- 
thing appeared  to  justify  alarm,  they  passed  on  to  the  second; 
and  here  too  all  being  quiet,  they  proceeded  to  a third  in  a 
more  tempered  step.  The  count  had  now  leisure  to  smile 
at  the  discomposure  into  which  he  had  been  surprised,  and 
to  ask  Ludovico  in  which  room  he  designed  to  pass  the 
night. 

u There  are  several  chambers  beyond  these,  your  excel- 
lenza,”  said  Ludovico,  pointing  to  a door,  “ and  in  one  of 
them  is  a bed,  they  say.  I will  pass  the  night  there  ; and 
when  I am  weary  of  watching,  I can  lie  down.” 

“ Good,”  said  the  count ; “ let  us  go  on.  You  see,  these 
rooms  show  nothing  but  damp  walls  and  decaying  furniture. 
I have  been  so  much  occupied  since  I came  to  the  chateau, 
that  I have  not  looked  into  them  till  now.  Remember, 
Ludovico,  to  tell  the  housekeeper  to-morrow  to  throw  open 
these  windows.  The  damask  hangings  are  dropping  to 
pieces ; I will  have  them  taken  down,  and  this  antique 
furniture  removed.” 

“ Dear  sir,”  said  Henri,  “here  is  an  arm-chair  so  massy 
with  gilding,  that  it  resembles  one  of  the  state  chairs  in  the 
Louvre  more  than  anything  else.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  count,  stopping  a moment  to  survey  it, 
“ there  is ‘a  history  belonging  to  that  chair,  but  I have  not 
time  to  tell  it ; let  us  pass  on.  This  suite  runs  to  a greater 
extent  than  I imagined  ; it  is  many  years  since  I was  in 
them.  But  where  is  the  bed-room  you  speak  of,  Ludovico  ? 
these  are  only  ante-chambers  to  the  great  drawing-room.  I 
remember  them  in  their  splendour.” 


10S 


LUDOVICO  IN  TIIE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


“ The  bed,  my  lord,”  replied  Ludovico,  u they  told  me 
was  in  a room  that  opens  beyond  the  saloon  and  terminates 
the  suite.” 

“ 0,  here  is  the  saloon,”  said  the  count,  as  they  entered 
the  spacious  apartment  in  which  Emily  and  Dorothee  had 
rested.  He  here  stood  for  a moment,  surveying  the  reliques 
of  faded  grandeur  which  it  exhibited,  the  sumptuous  tapestry, 
the  long  and  low  sofas  of  velvet  with  frames  heavily  carved 
and  gilded,  the  floor  inlaid  with  small  squares  of  fine  marble^ 
and  covered  in  the  centre  with  a piece  of  rich  tapestry  work, 
the  casements  of  painted  glass,  and  the  large  Venetian  mir- 
rors of  a size  and  quality «uch  as  at  that  period  France  could 
not  make,  which  reflected  on  every  side  the  spacious  apart- 
ment. These  had  also  formerly  reflected  a gay  and  brilliant 
scene,  for  this  had  been  the  state  room  of  the  chateau,  and 
here  the  marchioness  had  held  the  assemblies  that  made 
part  of  the  festivities  of  her  nuptials.  If  the  wand  of  a ma- 
gician could  have  recalled  the  .vanished  groups — many  of 
them  vanished  even  from  the  earth  ! — that  once  had  passed 
over  these  polished  mirrors,  what  a varied  and  contrasted 
picture  would  they  have  exhibited  with  the  present ! Now, 
instead  of  a blaze  of  lights,  and  a splendid  and  busy  crowd, 
they  reflected  only  the  rays  of  the  one  glimmering  lamp 
which  the  count  held  up,  and  which  scarcely  served  to  show 
the  three  forlorn  figures  that  stood  surveying  the  room,  and 
the  spacious  and  dusky  walls  around  them. 

u Ah. !”  said  the  count  to  Henri,  awaking  from  his  deep 
reverie,  “ how  the  scene  is  changed  since  last  I saw  it ! I 
was  a young  man  then,  and  the  marchioness  was  alive  and 
in  her  bloom  ; many  other  persons  were  here  too,  who  are 
now  no  more.  There  stood  the  orchestra,  here  we  tripped 
in  many  a sprightly  maze — the  walls  echoing  to  the  dance. 
Now  they  resound  only  one  feeble  voice,  and  even  that  will. 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


109 


ere  long,  be  heard  no  more.  My  son,  remember  that  I was 
once  as  young  as  yourself,  and  that  you  must  pass  away  like 
those  who  have  preceded  you — like  those  who,  as  they  sung 
and  danced  in  this  most  gay  apartment,  forgot  that  years 
are  made  up  of  moments,  and  that  every  step  they  took 
carried  them  nearer  to  their  graves.  But  such  reflections 
are  useless — I had  almost  said  criminal — unless  they  teach 
us  to  prepare  for  eternity,  since  otherwise  they  cloud  our 
present  happiness  without  guiding  us  to  a future  one.  But 
enough  of  this — let  us  go  on.” 

Ludovico  now  opened  the  door  of  the  bed-room,  and 
the  count,  as  he  entered,  was  struck  with  the  funeral  ap- 
pearance which  the  dark  arras  gave  to  it.  He  approached 
the  bed  with  an  emotion  of  solemnity,  and,  perceiving  it  to 
be  covered  with  a pall  of  black  velvet,  paused.  “ What  can 
this  mean  V7  said  he,  as  he  gazed  upon  it. 

u I have  heard,  my  lord,”  said  Ludovico,  as  he  stood  at 
the  feet,  looking  within  the  canopied  curtains,  “ that  the 
Lady  Marchioness  de  Yilleroi  died  in  this  chamber,  and 
remained  here  till  she  was  removed  to  be  buried  ; and  this, 
perhaps.,  signor,  may  account  for  the  pall.” 

The  count  made  no  reply,  but  stood  for  a few  moments 
engaged  in  thought,  and  evidently  much  affected.  Then, 
turning  to  Ludovico,  he  asked  him  with  a serious  air, 
whether  he  thought  his  courage  would  support  him  through 
the  night.  u If  you  doubt  this,”  added  the  count,  “ do  not 
be  ashamed  to  own  it ; I will  release  you  from  your  en- 
gagement without  exposing  you  to  the  triumphs  of  your 
fellow-servants.”  Ludovico  paused  ; pride  and  something 
very  like  fear  seemed  struggling  in  his  breast : pride, 
however,  was  victorious  ; — he  blushed,  and  his  hesitation 
ceased. 

u No,  my  lord,”  said  he,  “ I will  go  through  with  what 


110 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


I have  begun  ; and  I am  grateful  for  your  consideration. 
On  that  hearth  I will  make  a fire  ; and  with  the  good  cheer 
in  this  basket,  I doubt  not  I shall  do  well.” 

“ Be  it  so,”  said  the  count ; “ but  how  will  you  beguile 
the  tediousness  of  the  night,  if  you  do  not  sleep  ?” 

u When  I am  weary,  my  lord,”  replied  Ludovico,  u I 
shall  not  fear  to  sleep  ; in  the  meanwhile,  I have  a book 
that  will  entertain  me.” 

“ Well,”  said  the  count,  “ I hope  nothing  will  disturb 
}Tou  ; but  if  you  should  be  seriously  alarmed  in  the  night, 
come  to  my  apartment.  I have  too  much  confidence  in 
your  good  sense  and  courage  to  believe  you  will  be  alarmed 
on  slight  grounds,  or  suffer  the  gloom  of  this  chamber,  or 
its  remote  situation,  to  overcome  you  with  ideal  terrors. 
To-morrow  I shall  have  to  thank  you  for  an  important 
service  ; these  rooms  shall  then  be  thrown  open,  and  my 
people  will  then  be  convinced  of  their  error.  Good-night, 
Ludovico ; let  me  see  you  early  in  the  morning,  and  remem- 
ber what  I lately  said  to  you.” 

“ I will,  my  lord.  Good-night  to  your  excellenza — let 
me  attend  you  with  the  light.” 

He  lighted  the  count  and  Henri  through  the  chambers 
to  the  outer  door.  On  the  landing-place  stood  a lamp,  which 
one  of  the  affrighted  servants  had  left ; and  Henri,  as  he 
took  it  up,  again  bade  Ludovico  “ good-night,”  who,  having 
respectfully  returned  the  wish,  closed  the  door  upon  them 
and  fastened  it.  Then,  as  he  retired  to  the  bed-chamber, 
he  examined  the  rooms  through  which  he  passed  with  more 
minuteness  than  he  had  done  before  ; for  he  apprehended 
that  some  person  might  have  concealed  himself  in  them  for 
the  purpose  of  frightening  him.  No  one,  however,  but  him- 
self was  in  these  chambers  ; and  leaving  open  the  doors 
through  which  he  passed,  he  came  again  to  the  great  draw* 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


Ill 


ing-room,  whose  spaciousness  and  silent  gloom  somewhat 
startled  him.  For  a moment  he  stood  looking  back  through 
the  long  suite  of  rooms  he  had  just  quitted ; and  as 
he  turned,  perceiving  a light  and  his  own  figure  reflected  in 
one  of  the  large  mirrors,  he  started.  Other  objects,  too 
were  seen  obscurely  on  its  dark  surface,  but  he  paused  not 
to  examine  them,  and  returned  hastily  into  the  bed-room, 
as  he  surveyed  which,  he  observed  the  door  of  the  Oriel, 
and  opened  it.  All  within  was  still.  On  looking  round, 
his  eye  was  caught  by  the  portrait  of  the  deceased  mar- 
chioness, upon  which  he  gazed  for  a considerable  time  with 
great  attention  and  some  surprise  ; and  then,  having  ex- 
amined the  closet  he  returned  into  the  bed-room,  where  he 
kindled  a wood  fire,  the  bright  blaze  of  which  revived  his 
spirits,  which  had  begun  to  yield  to  the  gloom  and  silence 
of  the  place  ; for  gusts  of  wind  alone  broke  at  intervals  this 
silence.  He  now  drew  a small  table  and  a chair  near  the 
fire,  took  a bottle  of  wine  and  some  cold  provision  out  of 
his  basket,  and  regaled  himself.  When  he  had  finished  his 
repast  he  laid  his  sword  upon  the  table,  and  not  feeling 
disposed  to  sleep,  drew  from  his  pocket  the  book  he  had 
spoken  of.  It  was  a volume  of  old  Provencal  tales.  Hav- 
ing stirred  the  fire  into  a brighter  blaze,  trimmed  his  lamp, 
and  drawn  his  chair  upon  the  hearth,  he  began  to  read  j 
and  his  attention  was  soon  wholly  occupied  by  the  scenes 
which  the  page  disclosed. 

The  count,  meanwhile,  had  returned  to  the  supper-room, 
whither  those  of  the  party  who  had  attended  him  to  the 
north  apartment  had  retreated  upon  hearing  Dorothee’s 
scream,  and  who  were  now  earnest  in  their  inquiries  con- 
cerning those  chambers.  The  count  rallied  his  guests  on 
their  precipitate  retreat,  and  on  the  superstitious  inclinations 
which  had  occasioned  it ; and  this  led  to  the  question 


112 


LUDOVICO  IN  TIIE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


whether  the  spirit,  after  it  has  quitted  the  body,  is  ev^r 
permitted  to  revisit  the  earth  ; and  if  it  is,  whether  it  was 
possible  for  spirits  to  become  visible  to  the  sense  ? The 
baron  was  of  opinion,  that  the  first  was  probable,  and  the  last 
was  possible  ; and  he  endeavoured  to  justify  this  opinion  by 
respectable  authorities,  both  ancient  and  modern,  which  he 
quoted.  The  count,  however,  was  decidedly  against  him  : 
and  a long  conversation  ensued,  in  which  the  usual  argu- 
ments on  these  subjects  were  on  both  sides  brought  forward 
with  skill  and  discussed  with  candour,  but  without  convert- 
ing either  party  to  the  opinion  of  his  opponent.  The  effect 
of  their  conversation  on  their  auditors  was  various.  Though 
the  count  had  much  the  superiority  of  the  baron  in  point  of 
argument,  he  had  fewer  adherents  ; for  that  love,  so  natural 
to  the  human  mind,  of  whatever  is  able  to  distend  its  facul- 
ties with  wonder  and  astonishment,  attached  the  majority  of 
the  company  to  the  side  of  the  baron  ; and  though  many  of 
the  count’s  propositions  were  unanswerable,  his  opponents 
were  inclined  to  believe  this  the  consequence  of  their  own 
want  of  knowledge  on  so  abstracted  a subject,  rather  than 
that  arguments  did  not  exist  which  were  forcible  enough  to 
conquer  him. 

Blanche  was  pale  with  attention,  till  the  ridicule  in  her 
father’s  glance  called  a blush  upon  her  countenance,  and 
she  then  endeavoured  to  forget  the  superstitious  tales  she 
had  been  told  in  the  convent.  Meanwhile,  Emily  had  been 
listening  with  deep  attention  to  the  discussion  of  what  was 
to  her  a very  interesting  question  ; and  remembering  the 
appearance  she  had  seen  in  the  apartment  of  the  late  mar- 
chioness, she  was  frequently  chilled  with  awe.  Several 
times  she  was  on  the  point  of  mentioning  what  she  had  seen, 
but  the  fear  of  giving  pain  to  the  count,  and  the  dread  of 
his  ridicule,  restrained  her  ; and  awaiting  in  anxious  ex- 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


1 13 


pectation  the  event  of  Ludovico’s  intrepidity,  she  deter- 
mined that  her  future  silence  should  depend  upon  it. 

When  the  party  had  separated  for  the  night,  and  the 
count  retired  to  his  dressing-room,  the  remembrance  of  the 
desolate  scenes  he  had  so  lately  witnessed  in  his  own  man- 
sion deeply  affected  him,  but  at  length  he  was  aroused  from 
his  reverie  and  his  silence.  “ What  music  is  that  I hear  ?” 
Said  he  suddenly  to  his  valet.  “ Who  plays  at  this  late 
hour  ?” 

The  man  made  no  reply ; and  the  count  continued  to  lis- 
ten, and  then  added,  “ That  is  no  common  musician ; he 
touches  the  instrument  with  a delicate  hand.  Who  is  it, 
Pierre  ?” 

“ My  lord  !”  said  the  man,  hesitatingly. 

“ Who  plays  that  instrument  ?”  repeated  the  count. 

u Does  not  your  lordship  know,  then  ?”  said  the  valet. 

“ What  mean  you?”  said  the  count  somewhat  sternly. 

“Nothing,  my  lord,  I mean  nothing,”  rejoined  the  man 
submissively  ; “ only — that  music — goes  about  the  house  at 
midnight  often,  and  I thought  your  lordship  might  have 
heard  it  before.” 

“ Music  goes  about  the  house  at  midnight ! Poor  fellow  ! 
Does  nobody  dance  to  the  music,  too  ?” 

“ It  is  not  in  the  chateau,  I believe,  my  lord.  The  sounds 
come  from  the  woods,  they  say,  though  they  seem  so  very 
near  ; but  then  a spirit  can  do  anything.” 

“ Ah,  poor  fellow  !”  said  the  count,  “ I perceive  you  are 
as  silly  as  the  rest  of  them  ; to-morrow  you  will  be  con- 
vinced of  your  ridiculous  error.  But,  hark  ! what  noise  is 
that  ?” 

“ Oh,  my  lord  ! that  is  the  voice  we  often  hear  with  the 
music.” 

“ Often  !”  said  the  count ; “ how  often,  pray  ? It  is  a 
very  fine  one.” 


114 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


“ Why,  my  lord,  I myself  have  not  heard  it  more 
than  two  or  three  times  ; but  there  are  those  who  have 
lived  here  longer,  that  have  heard  it  often  enough.” 

“ What  a swell  was  that !”  exclaimed  the  count,  as  he 
still  listened;  u and  now,  what  a dying  cadence  ! This  is 
surely  something  more  than  mortal.” 

u That  is  what  they  say,  my  lord,”  said  the  valet ; “ they 
say  it  is  nothing  mortal  that  utters  it ; and  if  I might  say 
my  thoughts ” 

u Peace  !”  said  the  count ; and  he  listened  till  the  strain 
died  away. 

u This  is  strange,”  said  he,  as  he  returned  from  the  win- 
dow. Close  the  casements,  Pierre.” 

Pierre  obeyed,  and  the  count  soon  after  dismissed  him 
but  did  not  so  soon  lose  the  remembrance  of  the  music, 
which  long  vibrated  in  his  fancy  in  tones  of  melting  sweet- 
ness, while  surprise  and  perplexity  engaged  his  thoughts. 

Ludovico,  meanwhile  in  his  remote  chamber,  heard  now 
and  then  the  faint  echo  of  a closing  door  as  the  family  re- 
tired to  rest ; and  then  the  hall-clock,  at  a great  distance, 
struck  twelve.  “ It  is  midnight,”  said  he,  and  he  looked 
suspiciously  round  the  spacious  chamber.  The  fire  on  the 
hearth  was  now  nearly  expiring,  for  his  attention  having 
been  engaged  by  the  book  before  him,  he  had  forgotten 
everything  besides ; but  he  soon  added  fresh  wood,  not 
because  he  was  cold,  though  the  night  was  stormy, 
but  because  he  was  cheerless  ; and  having  again  trimmed 
the  lamp,  he  poured  out  a glass  of  wine,  drew  his  chair 
nearer  to  the  crackling  blaze,  tried  to  be  deaf  to  the  wind 
that  howled  mournfully  at  the  casements,  endeavoured  to 
abstract  his  mind  from  the  melancholy  that  was  stealing 
upon  him,  and  again  took  up  his  book.  It  had  been  lent  to 
him  by  Dorothee,  who  had  formerly  picked  it  up  in  an  obscure 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


115 


corner  of  the  marquis’s  library  ; and  who,  having  opened  it, 
and  perceived  some  of  the  marvels  it  related,  had  carefully 
preserved  it  for  her  own  entertainment,  its  condition  giving 
her  some  excuse  for  detaining  it  from  its  proper  station. 
The  damp  corner  into  which  it  had  fallen,  had  caused  the 
cover  to  be  disfigured  and  mouldy,  and  the  leaves  to  be  so 
discoloured  with  spots,  that  it  was  not  without  difficulty  the 
letters  could  be  traced.  The  fictions  of  the  Provencal  wri- 
ters, whether  drawn  from  the  Arabian  legends  brought  by 
the  Saracens  into  Spain,  or  recounting  the  chivalric  exploits 
performed  by  crusaders  whom  the  troubadours  accompanied 
to  the  East,  were  generally  splendid,  and  always  marvellous 
both  in  scenery  and  incident ; and  it  is  not  wonderful  that 
Dorothee  and  Ludovico  should  be  fascinated  by  inventions 
which  had  captivated  the  careless  imagination  in  every  rank 
of  society  in  a former  age.  Some  of  the  tales,  however,  in 
the  book  now  before  Ludovico  were  of  simple  structure,  and 
exhibited  nothing  of  the  magnificent  machinery  and  heroic 
manners  which  usually  characterized  the  fables  of  the  twelfth 
century,  and  of  this  description  was  the  one  he  now  hap. 
pened  to  open ; which  in  its  original  style  was  of  great 
length,  but  may  be  thus  shortly  related.  The  reader  will 
perceive  it  is  strongly  tinctured  with  the  superstition  of  the 
times. 


THE  PEOVENCAL  TALE. 

There  lived,  in  the  province  of  Bretagne,  a noble  baron, 
famous  for  his  magnificence  and  courtly  hospitalities.  His 
castle  was  graced  with  ladies  of  exquisite  beauty,  and 
thronged  with  illustrious  knights ; for  the  honour  he  paid 
to  feats  of  chivalry  invited  the  brave  of  distant  countries  to 
enter  his  lists,  and  his  court  was  more  splendid  than  those 
of  many  nrinces.  Eight  minstrels  were  retained  in  his  ser- 


116 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


vice,  who  used  to  sing  to  their  harps  romantic  fictions  taken 
from  the  Arabians,  or  adventures  of  chivalry  that  befell 
knights  during  the  crusades,  or  the  martial  deeds  of  the 
baron,  their  lord  ; while  he,  surrounded  by  his  knights  and 
ladies,  banqueted  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle,  where  the 
costly  tapestry  that  adorned  the  walls  with  pictured  exploits 
of  his  ancestors,  the  casements  of  painted  glass  enriched 
with  armorial  bearings,  the  gorgeous  banners  that  waved 
along  the  roof,  the  sumptuous  canopies,  the  profusion  of  gold 
and  silver  that  glittered  on  the  sideboards,  the  numerous 
dishes  that  covered  the  tables,  the  number  and  gay  liveries 
of  the  attendants,  with  the  chivalric  and  splendid  attire  of 
the  guests,  united  to  form  a scene  of  magnificence  such  as 
we  may  not  hope  to  see  in  these  degenerate  days. 

Of  the  baron  the  following  adventure  is  related  : — One 
night,  having  retired  late  from  the  banquet  to  his  chamber, 
and  dismissed  his  attendants,  he  was  surprised  by  the 
appearance  of  a stranger  of  a noble  air,  but  of  a sorrowful 
and  dejected  countenance.  Believing  that  this  person  had 
been  secreted  in  the  apartment,  since  it  appeared  impossible 
he  could  have  lately  passed  the  ante-room  unobserved  by  the 
pages  in  waiting,  who  would  have  prevented  this  intrusion 
on  their  lord,  the  baron,  calling  loudly  for  his  people,  drew 
his  sword,  which  he  had  not  yet  taken  from  his  side,  and 
stood  upon  his  defence.  The  stranger,  slowly  advancing, 
told  him  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear ; that  he  came  with 
no  hostile  intent,  but  to  communicate  to  him  a terrible 
secret,  which  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  know. 

The  baron,  appeased  by  the  courteous  manner  of  the 
stranger  after  surveying  him  for  some  time  in  silence,  re- 
turned his  sword  into  the  scabbard,  and  desired  him  to  ex- 
plain the  means  by  which  he  had  obtained  access  to  the 
chamber,  and  the  purpose  of  this  extraordinary  visit. 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


117 


Without  answering  either  of  these  inquiries,  the 
stranger  said  that  he  could  not  then  explain  himself,  but 
that,  if  the  baron  would  follow  him  to  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
at  a short  distance  from  the  castle  walls,  he  would  there 
convince  him  that  he  had  something  of  importance  to  dis- 
close. 

This  proposal  again  alarmed  the  baron,  who  would 
scarcely  believe  that  the  stranger  meant  to  draw  him  to  so 
solitary  a spot  at  this  hour  of  the  night  without  harbouring 
a design  against  his  life,  and  he  refused  to  go  : observing 
at  the  same  time,  that  if  the  stranger’s  purpose  was  an 
honourable  one,  he  would  not  persist  in  refusing  to  reveal 
the  occasion  of  his  visit  in  the  apartment  where  they  stood. 

While  he  spoke  this,  he  viewed  the  stranger  still  more 
attentively  than  before,  but  observed  no  change  in  his  counte- 
nance, or  any  symptom  that  might  intimate  a consciousness 
of  evil  design.  He  was  habited  like  a knight,  was  of  a tall 
and  majestic  stature,  and  of  dignified  and  courteous  man- 
ners. Still,  however,  he  refused  to  communicate  the  sub- 
stance of  his  errand  in  any  place  but  that  he  had  mentioned  : 
and  at  the  same  time  gave  hints  concerning  the  secret  he 
would  disclose,  that  awakened  a degree  of  solemn  curiosity 
in  the  baron,  which  at  length  induced  him  to  consent  to  the 
stranger  on  certain  conditions. 

cr  Sir  knight,”  said  he,  “ I will  attend  you  to  the  forest, 
and  will  take  with  me  only  four  of  my  people,  who  shall 
witness  our  conference.” 

To  this,  however,  the  knight  objected. 
u What  I would  disclose,”  said  he  with  solemnity,  a is 
to  you  alone.  There  are  only  three  living  persons  to  whom 
the  circumstance  is  known  ; it  is  of  more  consequence  to 
you  and  your  house  than  I shall  now  explain.  In  future 
years  you  will  look  back  to  this  night  with  satisfaction  or  re 


ns 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


pentancc,  accordingly  as  you  now  determine.  As  you  would 
hereafter  prosper,  follow  me ; I pledge  you  the  honour  of  a 
knight  that  no  evil  shall  befall  you.  If  you  are  contented 
to  dare  futurity,  remain  in  your  chamber,  and  I will  depart 
as  I came.” 

“ Sir  knight,”  replied  the  baron  ; “ how  is  it  possible 
that  my  future  peace  can  depend  upon  my  present  deter- 
mination ?” 

u That  is  not  now  to  be  told,”  said  the  stranger ; “ I 
have  explained  myself  to  the  utmost.  It  is  late  : if  you 
follow  me  it  must  be  quickly ; you  will  do  well  to  consider 
the  alternative.” 

The  baron  mused,  and,  as  he  looked  upon  the  knight,  he 
perceived  his  countenance  assume  a singular  solemnity. 

(Here  Ludovico  thought  he  heard  a noise,  and  he  threw 
a glance  round  the  chamber,  and  then  held  up  the  lamp  to 
assist  his  observation  ; but  not  perceiving  anything  to  con- 
firm his  alarm,  he  took  up  the  book  again,  and  pursued  the 
story.) 

The  baron  paced  his  apartment  for  some  time  in  silence, 
impressed  by  the  words  of  the  stranger,  whose  extraordinary 
request  he  feared  to  grant,  and  feared  also  to  refuse.  At 
length  he  said,  “ Sir  knight,  you  are  utterly  unknown  to  me  ; 
tell  me,  yourself,  is  it  reasonable  that  I should  trust  myself 
alone  with  a stranger,  at  this  hour,  in  the  solitary  forest  ? 
Tell  me,  at  least,  who  you  are,  and  who  assisted  to  secrete 
you  in  this  chamber  'P 

The  knight  frowned  at  these  words,  and  was  a moment 
silent ; then,  with  a countenance  somewhat  stern,  he  said, 
u I am  an  English  knight  : I am  called  Sir  Bevys  of  Lan- 
caster, and  my  deeds  are  not  unknown  at  the  holy  city, 
whence  I was  returning  to  my  native  land,  when  I was  be* 
nighted  in  the  forest.” 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


L 19 


u Your  name  is  not  unknown  to  fame,”  said  the  baron  ; 

I have  heard  of  it.”  (The  knight  looked  haughtily.) 
“ But  why,  since  my  castle  is  known  to  entertain  all  true 
knights,  did  not  your  herald  announce  you  ? Why  did  you 
not  appear  at  the  banquet,  where  your  presence  would  have 
been  welcomed,  instead  of  hiding  yourself  in  my  castle,  and 
stealing  to  my  chamber  at  midnight?” 

The  stranger  frowned,  and  turned  away  in  silence  ; but 
the  baron  repeated  the  questions. 

“ I come  not,”  said  the  knight,  “ t > answer  inquiries, 
but  to  reveal  facts.  If  you  would  know  more,  follow  me  ; 
and  again  I pledge  the  honour  of  a knight  that  you  shall 
return  in  safety.  Be  quick  in  your  determination — I must 
be  gone.” 

After  some  farther  hesitation,  the  baron  determined  to 
follow  the  stranger,  and  to  see  the  result  of  his  extraordi- 
nary request ; he  therefore  again  drew  forth  his  sword,  and, 
taking  up  a lamp,  bade  the  knight  lead  on.  The  latter 
obeyed  ; and  opening  the  door  of  the  chamber,  they  passed 
into  the  ante-room,  where  the  baron,  surprised  to  find  all 
his  pages  asleep,  stopped,  and  with  hasty  violence  was  going 
to  reprimand  them  for  their  carelessness,  when  the  knight 
waved  his  hand,  and  looked  so  expressively  at  the  baron, 
that  the  latter  restrained  his  resentment,  and  passed  on. 

The  knight,  having  descended  a staircase,  opened  a 
secret  door,  which  the  baron  had  believed  was  only  known 
to  himself ; and  proceeding  through  several  narrow  and 
winding  passages,  came  at  length  to  a small  gate  that  opened 
beyond  the  walls  of  the  castle.  Meanwhile,  the  baron  fol- 
lowed in  silence  and  amazement,  on  perceiving  that  these 
secret  passages  were  so  well  known  to  a stranger,  and  felt 
inclined  to  turn  back  from  an  adventure  that  appeared  to 
partake  of  treachery  as  well  as  danger.  Then,  considering 


1:20 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


that  lie  was  armed,  and  observing  the  courteous  and  noble 
air  of  his  conductor,  his  courage  returned,  he  blushed  that 
it  had  failed  him  for  a moment,  and  lie  resolved  to  trace  the 
mystery  to  its  source. 

He  now  found  himself  on  the  heathy  platform,  before 
the  great  gates  of  his  castle,  where,  on  looking  up,  he  per- 
ceived lights  glimmering  in  the  different  casements  of  the 
guests,  who  were  retiring  -to  sleep  ; and  while  he  shivered 
in  the  blast,  and  looked  on  the  dark  and  desolate  scene 
around  him,  he  thought  of  the  comforts  of  his  warm  cham- 
ber, rendered  cheerful  by  the  blaze  of  wood,  and  felt,  for  a 
moment,  the  full  contrast  of  his  present  situation. 

(Here  Ludovico  paused  a moment,  and,  looking  at  his 
own  fire,  gave  it  a brightening  stir.) 

The  wind  was  strong,  and  the  baron  watched  his  lamp 
with  anxiety,  expecting  every  moment  to  see  it  extin- 
guished ; but  though  the  flame  wavered,  it  did  not  expire, 
and  he  still  followed  the  stranger,  who  often  sighed  as  he 
went,  but  did  not  speak. 

When  they  reached  the  borders  of  the  forest,  the  knight 
turned  and  raised  his  head,  as  if  he  meant  to  address  the 
baron,  but  then  closing  his  lips,  in  silence  he  walked  on. 

As  they  entered  beneath  the  dark  and  spreading  boughs, 
the  baron,  affected  by  the  solemnity  of  the  scene,  hesitated 
whether  to  proceed,  and  demanded  how  much  farther  they 
were  to  go.  The  knight  replied  only  by  a gesture,  and  the 
baron,  with  hesitating  steps  and  a suspicious  eye,  followed 
through  an  obscure  and  intricate  path,  till,  having  proceeded 
a considerable  way,  he  again  demanded  whither  they  were 
going,  and  refused  to  proceed  unless  he  was  informed. 

As  he  said  this,  he  looked  at  his  own  sword  and  at  the 
knight  alternately,  who  shook  his  head,  and  whose  dejected 
countenance  disarmed  the  baron,  for  a moment,  of  suspicion. 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


121 


“ A little  farther  is  the  place  whither  I would  lead  you,” 
said  the  stranger ; “ no  evil  shall  befall  you — I have  sworn 
it  on  the  honour  of  a knight.” 

The  baron,  reassured,  again  followed  in  silence,  and 
they  soon  arrived  at  a deep  recess  of  the  forest,  where  the 
dark  and  lofty  chestnuts  entirely  excluded  the  sky,  and 
which  was  so  overgrown  with  underwood  that  they  proceeded 
with  difficulty.  The  knight  sighed  deeply  as  he  passed, 
and  sometimes  paused ; and  having  at  length  reached  a 
spot  where  the  trees  crowded  into  a knot,  he  turned,  and 
with  a terrific  look,  pointing  to  the  ground,  the  baron  saw 
there  the  body  of  a man,  stretched  at  its  length,  and  welter- 
ing in  blood  ; a ghastly  wound  was  on  the  forehead,  and 
death  appeared  already  to  have  contracted  the  features. 

The  baron,  on  perceiving  the  spectacle,  started  in  horror, 
looked  at  the  knight  for  explanation,  and  was  then  going  to 
raise  the  body,  and  examine  if  there  were  any  remains  of 
life  ; but  the  stranger,  waving  his  hand,  fixed  upon  him  a 
look  so  earnest  and  mournful,  as  not  only  much  surprised 
him,  but  made  him  desist. 

But  what  were  the  baron’s  emotions  when,  on  holding 
the  lamp  near  the  features  of  the  corpse,  he  discovered  the 
exact  resemblance  of  the  stranger  his  conductor,  to  whom 
he  now  looked  up  in  astonishment  and  inquiry  ! As  he 
gazed  he  perceived  the  countenance  of  the  knight  change 
and  begin  to  fade,  till  his  whole  form  gradually  vanished 
from  his  astonished  sense  ! While  the  baron  stood,  fixed 
to  the  spot,  a voice  was  heard  to  utter  these  words : — 

(Ludovico  started,  and  laid  down  the  book,  for  he  thought 
he  heard  a voice  in  the  chamber,  and  he  looked  toward  the 
bed,  where,  however,  he  saw  only  the  dark  curtain  and  the 
pall.  He  listened,  scarcely  daring  to  draw  his  breath,  but 
heard  only  the  distant  roaring  of  the  sea  in  the  storm,  and 
6 


122 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER . 


the  blast  that  rushed  by  the  casements ; when,  concluding 
that  lie  had  been  deceived  by  its  sighings,  he  took  up  his 
book  to  finish  his  story.) 

While  the  baron  stood,  fixed  to  the  spot,  a voice  was 
heard  to  utter  these  words  : — 

11  The  body  of  Sir  Bevys  of  Lancaster,  a noble  knight 
of  England,  lies  before  you.  He  was  this  night  waylaid 
and  murdered,  as  he  journeyed  from  the  holy  city  towards 
his  native  land,  llespect  the  honour  of  knighthood,  and 
the  law  of  humanity  ; inter  the  body  in  Christian  ground, 
and  cause  his  murderers  to  be  punished.  As  ye  observe  or 
neglect  this,  shall  peace  and  happiness,  or  war  and  misery, 
light  upon  you  and  your  house  for  ever  !” 

The  baron,  when  he  recovered  from  the  awe  and  aston- 
ishment into  wThich  this  adventure  had  thrown  him,  re- 
turned to*  his  castle,  whither  he  caused  the  body  of  Sir 
Bevys  to  be  removed  ; and  on  the  following  day  it  was 
interred  with  the  honours  of  knighthood,  in  the  chapel  of 
the  castle,  attended  by  all  the  noble  knights  and  ladies  who 
graced  the  court  of  Baron  de  Brunne. 

Ludovico,  having  finished  this  story,  laid  aside  the 
book,  for  he  felt  drowsy ; and  after  putting  more  wood  on 
the  fire,  and  taking  another  glass  of  wine,  he  reposed  him- 
self in  the  arm-chair  on  the  hearth.  In  his  dream  he  still 
beheld  the  chamber  where  he  really  was,  and  once  or  twice 
started  from  imperfect  slumbers,  imagining  he  saw  a man’s 
face  looking  over  the  high  back  of  his  arm-chair.  This 
idea  had  so  strongly  impressed  him,  that,  when  he  raised 
his  eyes,  he  almost  expected  to  meet  other  eyes  fixed  upon 
his  own ; and  he  quitted  his  seat,  and  looked  behind  the 
chair  before  he  felt  perfectly  convinced  that  no  person  was 
there. 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


123 


Thus  closed  the  hour. 

The  count,  who  had  slept  little  during  the  night,  rose 
early,  and,  anxious  to  speak  with  Ludovico,  went  to  the 
north  apartment ; but  the  outer  door  having  been  fastened 
on  the  preceding  night,  he  was  obliged  to  knock  loudly  for 
admittance.  Neither  the  knocking  nor  his  voice  was  heard  : 
he  renewed  his  calls  more  loudly  than  before ; after  which 
a total  silence  ensued  ; and  the  count,  finding  all  his  efforts 
to  be  heard  ineffectual,  at  length  began  to  fear  that  some 
accident  had  befallen  Ludovico,  whom  terror  of  an  imagin- 
ary being  might  have  deprived  of  his  senses.  He  therefore 
left  the  door  with  an  intention  of  summoning  his  servants 
to  force  it  open,  some  of  whom  he  now  heard  moving  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  chateau. 

To  the  count’s  inquiries  whether  they  had  seen  or  heard 
any  thing  of  Ludovico,  they  replied,  in  affright,  that  not  one 
of  them  had  ventured  on  the  north  side  of  the  chateau  since 
the  preceding  night. 

u He  sleeps  soundly,  then,”  said  the  count,  “ and  is  at 
such  a distance  from  the  outer  door,  which  is  fastened,  that 
to  gain  admittance  to  the  chambers  it  will  be  necessary  to 
force  it.  Bring  an  instrument,  and  follow  me.” 

The  servants  stood  mute  and  dejected,  and  it  was  not 
till  nearly  all  the  household  were  assembled,  that  the 
count’s  orders  were  obeyed.  In  the  meantime,  Dorothee 
was  telling  of  a door  that  opened  from  a gallery  leading 
from  the  great  staircase  into  the  last  ante-room  of  the 
saloon,  and  this  being  much  nearer  to  the  bed-chamber,  it 
appeared  probable  that  Ludovico  might  be  easily  awakened 
by  an  attempt  to  open  it.  Thither,  therefore,  the  count 
went ; but  his  voice  was  as  ineffectual  at  this  door  as  it 
had-  proved  at  the  remoter  one  ; and  now,  seriously  inte- 
rested for  Ludovico,  he  was  himself  going  to  strike  upon 


124 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


the  door  with  the  instrument,  when  he  observed  its  singular 
beauty,  and  withheld  the  blow.  It  appeared  on  the  first 
glance  to  be  of  ebony,  so  dark  and  close  was  its  grain,  and 
so  high  its  polish  ; but  it  proved  to  be  only  of  larch-weod, 
of  the  growth  of  Provence,  then  famous  for  its  forests  of 
larch.  The  beauty  of  its  polished  hue,  and  of  its  delicate 
carvings,  determined  the  count  to  spare  this  door,  and  he 
returned  to  that  leading  from  the  back  staircase,  which 
being  at  length  forced,  he  entered  the  first  ante-room,  fol- 
lowed by  Henri  and  a few  of  the  most  courageous  of  his 
servants,  the  rest  waiting  the  event  of  the  inquiry  on  the 
stairs  and  landing-place. 

All  was  silence  in  the  chambers  through  which  the 
count  passed,  and  having  reached  the  saloon,  he  called 
loudly  upon  Ludovico ; after  which,  still  receiving  no 
answer,  he  threw  open  the  door  of  the  bed-room,  and 
entered. 

The  profound  stillness  within  confirmed  his  apprehen- 
sions for  Ludovico,  for  not  even  the  breathings  of  a person 
in  sleep  were  heard  ; and  his  uncertainty  was  not  soon  ter- 
minated, since  the  shutters  being  all  closed,  the  chamber 
was  too  dark  for  any  object  to  be  distinguished  in  it. 

The  count  bade  a servant  open  them,  who,  as  he  crossed 
the  room  to  do  so,  stumbled  over  something,  and  fell  to  the 
floor,  when  his  cry  occasioned  such  a panic  among  the  few 
of  his  fellows  who  had  ventured  thus  far,  that  they  instantly 
fled,  and  the  count  and  Henri  were  left  to  finish  the  ad- 
venture. 

Henri  then  sprang  across  the  room,  and,  opening  a 
window-shutter,  they  perceived  that  the  man  had  fallen 
over  a chair  near  the  hearth,  in  which  Ludovico  had  been 
sitting  ; — for  he  sat  there  no  longer,  nor  could  anywhere 
be  seen  by  the  imperfect  light  that  was  admitted  into  the 


LUDOVICO  IN  THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


125 


apartment.  The  count,  seriously  alarmed,  now  opened  other 
shutters,  that  he  might  be  enabled  to  examine  farther  \ 
and  Ludovico  not  yet  appearing,  he  stood  for  a moment 
suspended  in  astonishment,  and  scarcely  trusting  his  senses, 
till  his  eyes  glancing  on  the  bed,  he  advanced  to  examine 
whether  he  was  there  asleep.  No  person,  however,  was  in 
it ; and  he  proceeded  to  the  Oriel,  where  every  thing  re- 
mained as  on  the  preceding  night ; but  Ludovico  was  no- 
where to  be  found. 

The  count  now  checked  his  amazement,  considering 
that  Ludovico  might  have  left  the  chamber  during  the 
night,  overcome  by  the  terrors  which  their  lonely  desolation 
and  the  recollected  reports  concerning  them  had  inspired. 
Yet,  if  this  had  been  the  fact,  the  man  would  naturally  have 
sought  society,  and  his  fellow-servants  had  all  declared  they 
had  not  seen  him  ; the  door  of  the  outer  room  also  had  been 
found  fastened,  with  the  key  on  the  inside  ; it  was  impos- 
sible, therefore,  for  him  to  have  passed  through  that ; and 
all  the  outer  doors  of  this  suite  were  found,  on  examination, 
to  be  bolted  and  locked,  with  the  keys  also  within  them. 
Tbe  count,  being  then  compelled  to  believe  that  the  lad 
had  escaped  through  the  casements,  next  examined  them : 
but  such  as  opened  wide  enough  to  admit  the  body  of  a 
man  were  found  to  be  carefully  secured  either  by  iron  bars 
or  by  shutters,  and  no  vestige  appeared  of  any  person 
having  attempted  to  pass  them  ; neither  was  it  probable 
that  Ludovico  would  have  incurred  the  risk  of  breaking  his 
neck  by  leaping  from  a window,  when  he  might  have  walked 
safely  through  a door. 

The  countls  amazement  did  not  admit  of  words ; but  he 
returned  once  more  to  examine  the  bed-room,  where  was 
no  appearance  of  disorder,  except  that  occasioned  by  the 
late  overthrow  of  the  chair,  near  which  had  stood  a small 


126 


LUDOVICO  IN  Tllh  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


table ; and  on  this  Ludovico’s  sword,  his  lamp,  the  book  he 
had  been  reading,  and  the  remains  of  a flask  of  wine,  still 
remained.  At  the  foot  of  the  table,  too,  was  the  basket, 
with  some  fragments  of  provision  and  wood. 

Henri  and  the  servant  now  uttered  their  astonishment 
without  reserve,  and  though  the  count  said  little,  there  was 
a seriousness  in  his  manner  that  expressed  much.  It  ap- 
peared that  Ludovico  must  have  quitted  these  rooms  by 
some  concealed  passage,  for  the  count  could  not  believe 
that  any  supernatural  means  had  occasioned  this  event ; 
yet,  if  there  was  any  such  passage,  it  seemed  inexplicable 
why  he  should  retreat  through  it ; and  it  was  equally  sur- 
prising that  not  even  the  smallest  vestige  should  appear 
by  which  his  progress  could  be  traced.  In  the  rooms, 
everything  remained  as  much  in  order  as  if  he  had  just 
walked  out  by  the  common  way. 

The  count  himself  assisted  in  lifting  the  arras  with 
which  the  bed-chamber,  saloon,  and  one  of  the  ante- rooms, 
were  hung,  that  he  might  discover  if  any  door  had  been 
concealed  behind  it ; but  after  a laborious  search,  none 
was  found  ; and  he  at  length  quitted  the  apartments,  having 
secured  the  door  of  the  last  ante-chamber,  the  key  of  which 
he  took  into  his  own  possession.  He  then  gave  orders  that 
strict  search  should  be  made  for  Ludovico,  not  only  in  the 
chateau,  but  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  retiring  with  Henri 
to  his  closet,  they  remained  there  in  conversation  for  a 
considerable  time  ; and  whatever  was  the  subject  of  it, 
Henri  from  this  hour  lost  much  of  his  vivacity  ; and  his 
manners  were  particularly  grave  and  reserved,  whenever 
the  topic  which  now  agitated  the  count’s  family  with  won- 
der and  alarm,  was  introduced.* 

* The  chateau  had  been  inhabited  before  the  count  came  into  its  pos- 
session. He  was  not  aware  that  the  apparently  outward  walls  contained 


LUDOVICO  IN  TIIE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 


127 


a series  of  passages  and  staircases,  which  led  to  unknown  vaults  under- 
ground ; and,  therefore,  he  never  thought  of  looking  for  a door  in  those 
parts  of  the  chamber  which  he  supposed  to  be  next  to  the  air.  In  these 
was  a communication  with  the  room.  The  chateau  (for  we  are  not  here 
in  Udolpho)  was  on  the  sea-shore  in  Languedoc;  its  vaults  had  become 
the  store-house  of  pirates,  who  did  their  best  to  keep  up  the  supernatural 
delusions  that  hindered  people  from  searching  the  premises ; and  these 
pirates  had  carried  Ludovico  away. 


BY  MRS.  INCIIBALD. 


<T'ljt  learning. 

FROM  TIIE  NOVEL  OF  “NATURE  AND  ART,” 

Elizabeth  Inciibald,  an  amusing  dramatist,  a writer  of  stories  of  the 
highest  order  for  sentiment  and  passion,  and  a beautiful  woman,  ad- 
mirable for  attractiveness  of  almost  every  kind,  especially  candour  and 
self-denial,  was  daughter  of  a farmer  in  Suffolk,  of  the  name  of  Simpson. 
She  married  an  actor,  a very  worthy  man,  who  died  not  long  after  their 
union.  She  performed  on  the  stage  herself  for  some  years,  in  spite  of 
an  impediment  in  her  speech,  which  seems  to  have  been  generally 
under  control ; and  then  settled  down  into  a successful  authoress,  court- 
ed by  high  and  low,  often  with  a view  to  marriage.  In  one  or  two 
instances  offers  would  evidently  have  been  accepted  had  they  been 
made,  but  she  was  superior  to  all  that  were  unconnected  with  the 
heart.  She  maintained  some  relatives  at  the  expense  of  personal 
sacrifices  that  sometimes  left  her  without  a fire  in  winter;  and  she  died 
at  a respectable  lodging-house  in  Kensington,  where  she  was  buried  in 
the  churchyard.  She  wrote  the  dramas  of  The  Midnight  Hour,  The 
Mogul  Tale , Such  Things  Are , <fec. ; and,  besides  the  novel  from  which 
the  following  incident  is  taken,  was  authoress  of  The  Simple  Story,  one 
of  the  deepest-felt  and  best- written  tales  in  the  language.  We  had  not 
the  honor  of  knowing  Mrs.  Inchbald;  but  we  love  her  memory  for 
many  reasons — one  of  which  is,  that  a mother  who  possessed  similar 
virtues  was  fond  of  those  novels,  particularly  Nature  and  Art , and 
recommended  it  strongly  to  us  in  our  boyhood.  Passages  more  beauti- 
ful and  pathetic  than  those  which  we  have  selected  are  not  to  be  found 
in  the  whole  circle  of  English  prose. 

The  reader  will  observe  that  the  warning  is  not  aimed  at  lawyers 
in  particular.  The  writer  would  have  done  nothing  so  unjust.  A 


THE  WARNING. 


129 


jawyer  is  only  selected  for  tlie  more  striking  illustration  of  it;  and  as 
the  profession,  generally  speaking,  has  been  as  free  in  its  way  of  life  as 
most  others,  however  admirable  for  the  final  wisdom  and  virtue  in 
which  its  many-thoughted  experience  tends  to  settle  it,  the  dreadful 
circumstances  imagined  in  this  story  are  but  too  possible — perhaps 
have  often  occurred  in  spirit,  though  not  in  letter.  The  exclamation 
“Oh,  not  from  you!”  may  rank  with  the  finest  bursts  of  emotion  in 
the  tragic  poets ; and  it  comes  more  dreadfully  home  to  the  bosom  of 
society. 

THE  day  at  length  is  come  on  which  Agnes  shall  have 
a sight  of  her  beloved  William  ! She  who  has  watch- 
ed for  hours  near  his  door,  to  procure  a glimpse  of  him 
going  out  or  returning  home  ; who  has  walked  miles  to  see 
his  chariot  pass  ; she  now  will  behold  him,  and  he  will  see 
her,  by  command  of  the  laws  of  his  country.  Those  laws, 
which  will  deal  with  rigour  towards  her,  are  in  this  one  in- 
stance still  indulgent. 

The  time  of  the  assizes  at  the  county  town  in  which 
she  is  imprisoned,  is  arrived — the  prisoners  are  demanded 
at  the  shire-hall — the  jail  doors  are  opened — they  go  in 
sad  procession.  The  trumpet  sounds — it  speaks  the  arrival 
of  the  judge — and  that  judge  is  William. 

The  day  previous  to  her  trial,  Agnes  had  read,  in  the 
printed  calendar  of  the  prisoners,  his  name  as  the  learned 
judge  before  whom  she  was  to  appear.  For  a moment  she 
forgot  her  perilous  state  in  the  excess  of  joy  which  the  still 
unconquerable  love  she  bore  to  him  permitted  her  to  taste, 
even  on  the  brink  of  the  grave!  After  reflection  made  her 
check  these  worldly  transports,  as  unfit  for  the  present  solemn 
occasion.  But,  alas  ! to  her,  earth  and  William  were  so  close- 
ly united,  that,  till  she  forsook  the  one,  she  could  never 
cease  to  think,  without  the  contending  passions  of  hope,  of 
fear,  of  love,  of  shame,  and  of  despair,  on  the  other. 

6* 


130 


THE  WARNING. 


Now  fear  took  place  of  her  first  immoderate  joy  ; she 
feared  that,  although  much  changed  in  person  since  he  had 
seen  her,  and  her  real  name  now  added  to  many  an  alias — 
yet  she  feared  that  some  well-known  glance  of  the  eye,  turn 
of  the  action,  or  accent  of  speech,  might  recall  her  to  his 
remembrance  ; and  at  that  idea,  shame  overcame  all  her 
other  sensations — for  still  she  retained  pride,  in  respect  to 
his  opinion,  to  wish  him  not  to  know  Agnes  was  that  wretch 
she  felt  she  was  ! Once  a ray  of  hope  beamed  on  her,  that 
if  he  knew  her — if  he  recognised  her — he  might  possibly  be- 
friend her  cause;  and  life,  bestowed  through  William’s 
friendship,  seemed  a precious  object ! But,  again,  that  rig- 
orous honour  she  had  often  Jieard  him  boast,  that  firmness 
to  his  word,  of  which  she  had  fatal  experience,  taught  her 
to  know  he  would  not,  for  any  improper  compassion,  any 
unmanly  weakness,  forfeit  his  oath  of  impartial  justice. 

In  meditations  such  as  these  she  passed  the  sleepless 
night. 

When,  in  the  morning,  she  was  brought  to  the  bar,  and 
her  guilty  hand  held  up  before  the  righteous  judgment-seat 
of  William,  imagination  could  not  form  two  figures,  or  two 
situations  more  incompatible  with  the  existence  of  former 
familiarity  than  the  judge  and  the  culprit ; and  yet,  these 
very  persons  had  passed  together  the  most  blissful  moments 
that  either  ever  tasted  ! Those  hours  of  tender  dalliance 
were  now  present  to  her  mind — his  thoughts  were  more  no- 
bly employed  in  his  high  office  ; nor  could  the  haggard  face, 
hollow  eye,  desponding  countenance,  and  meagre  person  of 
the  poor  prisoner,  once  call  to  his  memory,  though  her  name 
was  uttered  among  a list  of  others  which  she  had  assumed, 
his  former  youthful,  lovely  Agnes  ! 

She  heard  herself  arraigned,  with  trembling  limbs  and 
downcast  looks,  and  many  witnesses  had  appeared  against 


THE  WARNING. 


1 3 i 


her,  before  she  ventured  to  lift  her  eyes  up  to  her  awful 
judge;  she  then  gave  one  fearful  glance,  and  discovered 
William,  unpitying  but  beloved  William,  in  every  feature  ! 
It  was  a face  she  had  been  used  to  look  on  with  delight,  and 
a kind  of  absent  smile  of  gladness  now  beamed  on  her  poor 
wan  visage. 

When  every  witness  on  the  part  of  the  prosecutor  had 
been  examined,  the  judge  addressed  himself  to  her — 

u What  defence  have  you  to  make  ?” 

It  was  William  spoke  to  Agnes  ! The  sound  was  sweet ; 
the  voice  was  mild,  was  soft,  compassionate,  encouraging. 
It  almost  charmed  her  to  a love  of  life  ! Not  such  a voice 
as  when  William  last  addressed  her ; when  he  left  her  un- 
done and  pregnant,  vowing  never  to  see  or  speak  to  her 
more. 

She  would  have  hung  upon  the  present  word  for  ever. 
She  did  not  call  to  mind  that  this  gentleness  was  the  effect 
of  practice,  the  art  of  his  occupation  ; which,  at  times,  is 
but  a copy,  by  the  unfeeling,  of  the  benevolent  brethren  of 
the  bench.  In  the  present  judge,  tenderness  was  not  de- 
signed for  consolation  of  the  culprit,  but  for  the  approbation 
of  the  auditors. 

There  were  no  spectators,  Agnes,  by  your  side  when  last 
he  parted  from  you  ; — if  there  had,  the  awful  William  would 
have  been  awed  to  marks  of  pity. 

Stunned  with  the  enchantment  of  that  well-known  tongue 
directed  to  her,  she  stood  like  one  just  petrified — all  vital 
power  seemed  suspended. 

Again  he  put  the  question,  and  with  these  additional 
sentences,  tenderly  and  emphatically  delivered  : — “ Recol- 
lect yourself;  have  you  no  witnesses?  no  proof  on  your 
behalf?” 

A dead  silence  followed  these  questions. 


132 


THE  WA  RNING . 


He  then  mildly  but  forcibly  added — “ What  have  you 
to  say?” 

Here  a flood  of  tears  burst  from  her  eyes,  which  she 
fixed  earnestly  upon  him,  as  if  pleading  for  mercy,  while 
she  faintly  articulated — 

u Nothing,  my  lord.” 

After  a short  pause,  he  asked  her  in  the  same  forcible, 
but  benevolent  tone — 

u Have  you  no  one  to  speak  to  your  character  ?” 

The  prisoner  answered — 

“ No.” 

A second  gush  of  tears  followed  this  reply,  for  she  called 
to  mind  by  whom  her  character  had  first  been  blasted. 

He  summed  up  the  evidence,  and  every  time  he  was 
obliged  to  press  hard  upon  the  proofs  against  her,  she 
shrunk,  and  seemed  to  stagger  with  the  deadly  blow — 
writhed  under  the  weight  of  his  minute  justice,  more  than 
from  the  prospect  of  a shameful  death. 

The  iury  consulted  but  a few  minutes,  the  verdict  was — 
“ Guilty.” 

She  heard  it  with  composure. 

But  when  William  placed  the  fatal  velvet  on  his  head, 
and  rose  to  pronounce  the  fatal  sentence,  she  started  with  a 
kind  of  convulsive  motion,  retreated  a step  or  two  back,  and 
lifting  up  her  hands,  wTith  a scream  exclaimed — 

u Oh,  not  from  you  !” 

The  piercing  shriek  which  accompanied  these  words, 
prevented  their  being  heard  by  part  of  the  audience  ; and 
those  who  heard  them  thought  little  of  their  meaning,  more 
than  that  they  expressed  her  fear  of  dying. 

Serene  and  dignified,  as  if  no  such  exclamation  had  been 
uttered,  William  delivered  the  final  speech  ending  with — 
u Dead,  dead,  dead.” 


THE  WARNING . 


133 


She  fainted  as  he  closed  the  period,  and  was  carried  hack 
to  prison  in  a swoon ; while  he  adjourned  the  court  to  go 
to  dinner. 

If,  unaffected  by  the  scene  he  had  witnessed,  William 
sat  down  to  dinner  with  an  appetite,  let  not  the  reader  con- 
ceive that  the  most  distant  suspicion  had  struck  his  mind 
of  his  ever  having  seen,  much  less  familiarly  known,  the 
poor  offender  whom  he  had  just  condemned.  Still  this 
forgetfulness  did  not  proceed  from  the  want  of  memory  for 
Agnes.  In  every  peevish  or  heavy  hour  passed  with  his 
wife,  he  was  sure  to  think  of  her;  yet  it  was  self-love, 
rather  than  love  of  her,  that  gave  rise  to  these  thoughts. 
He  felt  the  lack  of  female  sympathy  and  tenderness  to 
soften  the  fatigue  of  studious  labour,  to  soothe  a sullen,  a 
morose  disposition — he  felt  he  wanted  comfort  for  himself, 
but  never  once  considered  what  were  the  wants  of  Agnes. 

In  the  chagrin  of  a barren  bed  he  sometimes  thought, 
too,  even  on  the  child  that  Agnes  bore  him  ; but  whether  it 
were  male  or  female,  whether  a beggar  in  the  streets  or 
dead,  various  and  important  public  occupation  forbade  him 
to  inquire.  Yet  the  poor,  the  widow,  and  the  orphan  fre- 
quently shared  William’s  ostentatious  bounty.  He  was  the 
president  of  many  excellent  charities,  gave  largely,  and 
sometimes  instituted  benevolent  societies  for  the  unhappy  ; 
for  he  delighted  to  load  the  poor  with  obligation,  and  the 
rich  with  praise. 

There  are  persons  like  him  who  love  to  do  every  thing 
good  but  that  which  their  immediate  duty  requires.  There 
are  servants  that  will  serve  every  one  more  cheerfully  than 
their  masters ; there  are  men  who  will  distribute  money 
liberally  to  all  except  their  creditors  ; and  there  are  wives 
who  will  love  all  mankind  better  than  their  own  husbands. 
Duty  is  a familiar  word  which  has  little  effect  upon  an  ordi- 


134 


THE  WARNING . 


nary  mind ; and  as  ordinary  minds  make  a vast  majority, 
we  have  acts  of  generosity,  self-denial,  and  honesty,  where 
smaller  pains  would  constitute  greater  virtues.  Had  Wil- 
liam followed  the  common  dictates  of  charity,  had  he 
adopted  private  pity  instead  of  public  munificence,  had  he 
cast  an  eye  at  home  before  he  sought  abroad  for  objects  of 
compassion,  Agnes  had  been  preserved  from  an  ignominious 
death,  and  he  had  been  preserved  from — remorse , the  tor- 
tures of  which  he  for  the  first  time  proved  on  reading  a 
printed  sheet  of  paper,  accidentally  thrown  in  his  way  a few 
days  after  he  had  left  the  town  in  which  he  had  condemned 
her  to  die. 

u March  10th,  179 — . 

u The  last  dying  words,  speech,  and  confession,  birth, 
parentage,  and  education,  life,  character,  and  behaviour,  of 
Agnes  Primrose,  wTho  was  executed  this  morning  between 
the  hours  of  ten  and  twelve,  pursuant  to  the  sentence  passed 
upon  her  by  the  Honourable  Justice  Norwynne. 

iC  Agnes  Primrose  was  born  of  honest  parents,  in  the 

village  of  Anfield,  in  the  county  of ” (William  started 

at  the  name  of  the  village  and  county) ; “ but  being  led 
astray  by  the  arts  and  flattery  of  seducing  man,  she  fell 
from  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  took  to  bad  company,  which 
instilled  into  her  young  heart  all  their  evil  ways,  and  at 
length  brought  her  to  this  untimely  end.  So  she  hopes  her 
death  will  be  a warning  to  all  young  persons  of  her  own  sex, 
how  they  listen  to  the  praises  and  courtship  of  young  men, 
especially  of  those  who  are  their  betters  ; for  they  only 
court  to  deceive.  But  the  said  Agnes  freely  forgives  all 
persons  who  have  done  her  injury  or  given  her  sorrow,  from 
the  young  man  who  first  won  her  heart,  to  the  jury  who 
found  her  guilty,  and  the  judge  who  condemned  her  to  death. 


THE  WARNING. 


135 


u And  she  acknowledges  the  justice  of  her  sentence,  not 
only  in  respect  of  her  crime  for  which  she  suffers,  hut  in  re- 
gard to  many  other  heinous  sins  of  which  she  has  been  guilty, 
more  especially  that  of  once  attempting  to  commit  a murder 
upon  her  own  helpless  child  ; for  which  guilt  she  now  con- 
siders the  vengeance  of  God  has  overtaken  her,  to  which  she 
is  patiently  resigned,  and  departs  in  peace  and  charity  with 
all  the  world,  praying  the  Lord  to  have  mercy  on  her  part- 
ing soul.” 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE  CONFESSION. 

u So  great  was  this  unhappy  woman’s  terror  of  death  and 
the  awful  judgment  that  was  to  follow,  that  when  sentence 
was  pronounced  upon  her  she  fell  into  a swoon,  from  that  into 
convulsions,  from  which  she  never  entirely  recovered,  but 
was  delirious  to  the  time  of  her  execution,  except  that  short 
interval  in  which  she  made  her  confession  to  the  clergyman 
who  attended  her.  She  has  left  one  child,  a youth  almost 
sixteen,  who  has  never  forsaken  his  mother  during  all  the 
time  of  her  imprisonment,  but  waited  on  her  with  true  filial 
duty  j and  no  sooner  was  her  final  sentence  passed  than  he 
began  to  droop,  and  now  lies  dangerously  ill  near  the  prison 
from  which  she  is  released  by  death.  During  the  loss  of 
her  senses,  the  said  Agnes  Primrose  raved  continually  of 
her  child ; and,  asking  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  wrote  an  in- 
coherent petition  to  the  judge,  recommending  the  youth  to 
his  protection  and  mercy.  But  notwithstanding  this  insanity, 
she  behaved  with  composure  and  resignation  when  the  fatal 
morning  arrived  in  which  she  was  to  be  launched  into  eter- 
nity. She  prayed  devoutly  during  the  last  hour,  and  seemed 
to  have  her  whole  mind  fixed  on  the  world  to  which  she  was 
going.  A crowd  of  spectators  followed  her  to  the  fatal  spot, 
most  of  whom  returned  weeping  at  the  recollection  of  the 


136 


THE  WARNING. 


fervency  with  which  she  prayed,  and  the  impression  which 

her  dreadful  state  seemed  to  make  upon  her.” 

#*#### 

No  sooner  had  the  name  of  “ Anfield”  struck  William, 
than  a thousand  reflections  and  remembrances  flashed  on 
his  mind  to  give  him  full  conviction  who  it  was  he  had  judged 
and  sentenced.  He  recollected  the  sad  remains  of  Agnes, 
such  as  he  once  had  known  her ; and  now  he  wondered  how 
his  thoughts  could  have  been  absent  from  an  object  so  piti- 
able, so  worthy  of  his  attention,  as  not  to  give  him  even 
suspicion  who  she  was,  either  from  her  name  or  from  her 
person,  during  the  whole  trial. 

But  wonder,  astonishment,  horror,  and  every  other  sen- 
sation was  absorbed  by — remorse.  It  wounded,  it  stabbed, 
it  rent  his  hard  heart  as  it  would  do  a tender  one  ; it  havocked 
on  his  firm  inflexible  mind  as  it  would  on  a weak  and  pliant 
brain  ! Spirit  of  Agnes  ! look  down,  and  behold  all  your 
wrongs  revenged  ! William  feels — remorse. 


3njjti  36mtrlt. 


'HE  Life  of  John  Buncle, , Esq. ; containing  various  Observations 


JL  and  Refections  made  in  several  parts  of  the  World,  and  many 
Extraordinary  Relations , is  a book  unlike  any  other  in  the  language, 
perhaps  in  the  world ; and  the  introduction  of  passages  from  it  into 
the  present  volume  must  be  considered  as  being,  like  itself  an  excep- 
tion to  rules;  for  it  will  resemble  rather  a notice  in  a review,  than  our 
selections  in  general.  John’s  Life  is  not  a classic:  it  contains  no 
passage  which  is  a general  favourite : no  extract  could  be  made  from  it 
of  any  length,  to  which  readers  of  good  taste  would  not  find  objections. 
Yet  there  is  so  curious  an  interest  in  all  its  absurdities;  its  jumble  of 
the  gayest  and  gravest  considerations  is  so  founded  in  the  actual  state  of 
things ; it  draws  now  and  then  such  excellent  portraits  from  life ; and 
above  all,  its  animal  spirits  are  at  once  so  excessive  and  so  real,  that 
we  defy  the  best  readers  not  to  be  entertained  with  it,  and  having  had 
one  or  two  specimens,  not  to  desire  more.  Buncle  would  say,  that 
there  is  “cut  and  come  again”  in  him,  like  one  of  his  luncheons  of 
cold  beef  and  a foaming  tankard. 

John  Buncle,  Esq.,  is  the  representative  of  his  author,  Thomas 
Amory;  of  whom  little  is  known,  except  that  he  was  a gentleman  of 
singular  habits  and  appearance,  who  led  a retired  life,  was  married, 
was  a vehement  Unitarian,  wrote  another  extraordinary  book  profess- 
ing to  be  “ Lives  of  Several  Ladies ” (in  which  there  is  a link  with 
John),  and  died,  to  the  glory  of  animal  spirits,  and  of  rounds  of  bread 
and  butter  (into  which  his  good  cheer  seems  latterly  to  have  merged), 
at  the  ripe  old  age  of  ninety-seven.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  bred 
a physician.  His  father  was  a barrister,  and  is  understood  to  have 
acquired  considerable  property  in  Ireland,  in  consequence  of  becoming 
secretary  to  the  forfeited  estates. 


138 


JOHN  BUNCLE. 


John  Buncle  is  evidently  Aniory  liimself.  This  is  apparent  from 
the  hits  of  real  autobiography  which  are  mixed  with  the  fictitious,  and 
which  constitute  one  of  the  strange  jumbles  in  his  book.  Hazlitt  has 
called  him  the  “English  Rabelais;”  and  in  point  of  animal  spirits,  love 
of  good  cheer,  and  something  of  a mixture  of  scholarship,  theology, 
and  profane  reading,  he  may  be  held  to  deserve  the  title ; but  he  has 
no  claim  to  the  Frenchman’s  greatness  of  genius,  freedom  from  bigotry, 
and  profoundness  of  wit  and  humour.  lie  might  have  done  very  well 
for  a clerk  to  Rabelais ; and  his  master  would  have  laughed  quite  as 
much  at,  as  with  him.  John  is  a kind  of  innocent  Henry  the  Eighth 
“of  private  life,”  without  the  other’s  fat,  fury,  and  solemnity.  He  is 
a prodigious  hand  at  matrimony,  at  divinity,  at  a song,  at  a loud 
“hem,”  and  at  a turkey  and  chine.  He  breaks  with  the  Trinitarians 
as  confidently  and  with  as  much  scorn  as  Henry  did  with  the  Pope ; 
and  he  marries  seven  wives,  whom  he  disposes  of  by  the  lawful  process 
of  fever  and  small-pox.  His  book  is  made  up  of  natural  history,  ma- 
thematics (literally),  songs,  polemics,  landscapes,  eating  and  drinking, 
and  characters  of  singular  men,  all  bound  together  by  his  introductions 
to  and  marriages  wTith  these  seven  successive  ladies,  every  one  of  whom 
is  a charmer,  a Unitarian,  and  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  her  youth.  Buncle 
does  not  know  how  to  endure  her  loss ; he  shuts  his  eyes  “ for  three 
days;”  is  stupified;  is  in  despair;  till  suddenly  he  recollects  that 
Heaven  does  not  Uke  such  conduct ; that  it  is  a mourner’s  business  to 
bow  to  its  decrees ; to  be  devout ; to  be  philosophic : in  short,  to  be 
jolly,  and  look  out  for  another  dear,  bewitching  partner,  “ on  Christian 
principles.”  This  is,  literally,  a fair  account  of  his  book;  and  our 
readers  are  now  qualified  to  understand  the  passages  we  proceed  to 
extract. 

The  “ Lives  of  Several  Ladies ,”  which  preceded  Buncle’s  autobi- 
ography, professed  to  be  genuine  lives,  and  wrere  equally  manifest 
fictions,  mixed  with  a portion  of  truth.  The  ladies,  like  the  wives, 
were  all  Unitarians,  and  all  charming ; and  the*  writer,  after  a certain 
spiritual  mode,  fell  in  love  wTith  them.  They  partook  of  liis  zest  for 
all  the  pleasures  of  life ; had  a great  objection  to  ugly,  as  well  as  to 
Athanasian  husbands,  and  none  in  the  world  to  a good  supper.  The 
lives  are  addressed  to  a friend  of  the  name  of  Jewks — a name  which  is 
often  apostrophized  with  an  abrupt  joviality  of  the  most  amusing  kind, 
in  the  midst  of  theological  disquisitions.  As  the  opening  of  this  work 
is  no  unfavourable  specimen  of  the  author,  and  furnishes  a pretty 


JOHN  B UNGLE. 


139 


thorough  foretaste  of  his  spirit,  the  reader  is  presented  with  a few 
pages  of  it. 

u Your  letter,  dear  Jewks,  I had  the  pleasure  of  receiv- 
ing ; and,  that  you  should  not  suspect  me  of  neglecting 
you,  I postpone  my  journey  to  Chadson,  to  answer  your 
questions.  To  the  best  of  my  power  I will  give  you  a monu- 
ment of  my  friendship,  though  at  present  my  condition  is 
such,  that  I cannot  subtract  too  much  from  the  organs  of 
the  intellect,  to  give  to  those  of  motion.  You  shall  have  all 
I know  relating  to  the  lady  you  inquire  after.  You  shall 
have,  by  the  way,  a few  occasional  observations. 

“ In  the  year  1739,  I travelled  many  hundred  miles  to 
visit  ancient  monuments,  and  discover  curious  things ; and 
as  I wandered,  to  this  purpose,  among  the  vast  hills  of 
Northumberland,  fortune  conducted  me  one  evening,  in  the 
month  of  June,  when  I knew  not  where  to  rest,  to  the 
sweetest  retirement  my  eyes  have  ever  beheld.  This  is 
Hali-farm.  It  is  a beautiful  vale  surrounded  with  rocks, 
forest,  and  water.  I found  at  the  upper  end  of  it  the  pret- 
tiest thatched  house  in  the  world,  and  a garden  of  the  most 
artful  confusion  I had  ever  seen.  The  little  mansion  was 
covered  on  every  side  with  the  finest  flowery  greens.  The 
streams,  all  round,  were  murmuring  and  falling  a thousand 
ways.  All  the  kinds  of  singing  birds  were  here  collected, 
and  in  high  harmony  on  the  sprays.  The  ruins  of  an  abbey 
enhance  the  beauties  of  this  place ; they  appear  at  the  distance 
of  four  hundred  yards  from  the  house  ; and  as  some  great 
trees  are  now  grown  up  among  the  remains,  and  a river  winds 
between  the  broken  walls,  the  view  is  solemn,  the  picture  fine. 

t£  When  I came  up  to  the  house,  the  first  figure  I saw 
was  the  lady  whose  story  I am  going  to  relate.  She  had 
the  charms  of  an  angel,  but  her  dress  was  quite  plain  and 
clean  like  a country  maid.  Her  person  appeared  faultless, 


140 


JOHN  B UNCLE. 


and  of  the  middle  size,  between  the  disagreeable  extremes ; 
her  face  a sweet  oval,  and  her  complexion  the  brunette  of 
the  bright  rich  kind  ; her  mouth,  like  a rose-bud  that  is  just 
beginning  to  blow ; and  a fugitive  dimple,  by  fits,  would 
lighten  and  disappear.  The  finest  passions  were  always 
passing  in  her  face ; and  in  her  long,  even,  chestnut  eyes, 
there  was  a fluid  fire  sufficient  for  half-a-dozen  pair. 

iL  She  had  a volume  of  Shakspeare  in  her  hand  as  I came 
softly  towards  her,  having  left  my  horse  at  a distance  with 
my  servant ; and  her  attention  was  so  much  engaged  with 
the  extremely  poetical  and  fine  lines  which  Titania  speaks 
in  the  third  act  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream , that  she 
did  not  see  me  till  I was  quite  near  her.  She  seemed  then 
in  great  amazement.  She  could  not  be  much  more  sur- 
prised if  I had  dropped  from  the  clouds.  But  this  was  soon 
over,  upon  my  asking  her  if  she  was  not  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  John  Bruce,  as  I supposed  from  a similitude  of  faces, 
and  informing  her  that  her  father,  if  I was  right,  was  my 
near  friend,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  his  chum  in  that  part 
of  the  world.  Marinda  replied,  c You  are  not  wrong  and 
immediately  asked  me  in.  She  conducted  me  to  a parlour 
that  was  quite  beautiful  in  the  rural  way,  and  welcomed  me 
to  Hali-farm,  as  her  father  would  have  done,  she  said,  had 
I arrived  before  his  removal  to  a better  world.  She  then 
left  me  for  a while,  and  I had  time  to  look  over  the  room  I 
was  in.  The  floor  was  covered  with  rushes  wrought  into 
the  prettiest  mat,  and  the  walls  decorated  all  round  with 
the  finest  flowers  and  shells.  Bobins  and  nightingales,  the 
finch  and  the  linnet,  were  in  the  neatest  red  cages  of  her 
own  making  ; and  at  the  upper  end  of  the  chamber,  in  a 
charming  little  open  grotto,  was  the  finest  strix  capite 
aurito , enrpore  rufo , that  I have  seen,  that  is,  the  great 
eagle  oivl.  This  beautiful  bird,  in  a niche  like  a ruin,  looked 


JOHN  BUNGLE. 


141 


vastly  fine.  As  to  the  flowers  which  adorned  this  room, 
I thought  they  were  all  natural  at  my  first  coming  in,  but 
on  inspection  it  appeared  that  several  baskets  of  the  finest 
kinds  were  inimitably  painted  on  the  walls  by  Marinda’s 
hand. 

“ These  things  afforded  me  a pleasing  entertainment  for 
about  half  an  hour,  and  then  Miss  Bruce  returned.  One  of 
the  maids  brought  in  a supper — such  fare,  she  said,  as  her 
little  cottage  afforded ; and  the  table  was  covered  with 
green  peas  and  pigeons,  cream  cheese,  new  bread  and  but- 
ter. Everything  was  excellent  in  its  kind.  The  cider  and 
ale  were  admirable.  Discretion  and  dignity  appeared  in 
Marinda’s  behaviour;  she  talked  with  judgment;  and, 
under  the  decencies  of  ignorance,  was  concealed  a valuable 
knowledge.” — Yol.  I.,p.  1. 

This  is  the  way  in  which  Buncle  meets  with  most  of  his  ladies. 
They  are  discovered  in  lovely  places  reading  hooks,  and  are  always 
prepared  for  nice  little  suppers.  Their  fathers  or  other  companions  are 
generally  people  to  match.  Jack  Bruce,  Marinda’s  father,  was  an 
excellent  good  fellow,  disinherited  by  his  own  father  for  refusing  to 
sign  the  thirty-nine  articles.  He  disappears  in  a solitude,  marries  a 
farmer’s  daughter  (“an  extraordinary  beauty”  with  an  “uncommon 
understanding”),  and  becomes  a farmer  himself. 

“ 1 Religion,’  would  Jack  Bruce  say,  as  we  passed  an 
evening  over  a little  bowl  of  nectar — for  he  never  taught  in 
the  dry,  sober  method — • religion,’  &c.” 

Then  follows  a picture  of  philosophic  Unitarianism. 

“This  was  a glorious  faith,  Jewks.”  People,  he  says, 
“may  substitute  inventive  pieces  in  the  place  of  true  religion ; 
and  multiply  their  fancies  into  endless  volumes ; such  as 
Revelation  examined  ivitli  Candour , the  most  uncandid 


M2 


JOHN  £ UNCLE. 


thing  that  ever  was  written;  the  Life  of  David , &c.,  by  the 
same  author;  Rogers’s  Discourse  of  the  Visible  and  Invisi- 
ble Church;  Waterland’s  Importance , and  other  writings; 
the  execrable  d ialogucs  called  Ophiomaclies  ; Trapp , Web- 
ster, and  Vernon ; the  miserable  Answers  to  the  Bishop  oj 
Clog  her  ; Dodwell , Church , and  Brooks , against  Middle- 
ton  ; Knowles  against  the  Argument  a Priori ; and  cart- 
loads of  such  religious  lumber  ” (these  italics  are  the  au- 
thor’s) ; “ but,  my  dear  Jewks,  true  Christianity  lies  in  re- 
pentance and  amendment.” 

Miss  Bruce  wins  a husband  by  painting  pictures  of  “Arcadia”  and 
the  “Crucifixion,”  and  “playing  on  the  fiddle.”  Divers  charming 
young  ladies  come  to  her  house  by  accident,  and  form  extempore 
never-dying  friendships,  in  the  manner  of  the  people  in  the  Rovers — 

“ Come  to  my  arms,  my  slight  acquaintance.” 

Among  others  are  Mrs.  Schomberg  and  Miss  West. 

u They  were  riding  to  Crawford  Dyke,  near  Dunglass, 
the  place  I intended  for,  and  by  a wrong  turn  in  the  road 
came  to  Mrs.  Benlow’s  house,  instead  of  going  to  Robin’s 
Toad,  where  they  designed  to  bait.  It  was  between  eight 
and  nine  at  night  when  they  got  to  her  door ; and  as  they 
appeared,  by  the  richness  of  their  riding-dress,  their  ser- 
vants, and  the  beautiful  horses  they  rid,  to  be  women  of 
distinction,  Mrs.  Benlow  invited  them  in,  and  requested 
they  would  lie  at  her  house  that  night,  as  the  inn  they  were 
looking  for  was  very  bad.  Nothing  could  be  more  grateful 
to  the  ladies  than  this  proposal.  They  were  on  the  ground 
in  a moment  ; and  we  all  sat  down  soon  after,  with  the 
greatest  cheerfulness,  to  a fine  dish  of  trouts,  roasted 
chickens,  tarts,  and  sparragrass.  The  strangers  were  quite 
charmed  with  everything  they  saw.  The  sweet  rural  room 
they  were  in,  and  the  wild  beauties  of  the  garden  in  view. 


JOHN  BUNGLE. 


143 


they  could  not  enough  admire  ; and  they  were  so  struck 
with  Mrs.  Benlow’s  goodness,  and  the  lively  happy  manner 
she  has  of  showing  it,  that  they  conceived  immediately  the 
greatest  affection  for  her.  Felicity  could  not  rise  higher 
than  it  did  at  this  table.  For  a couple  of  hours  we  laughed 
most  immoderately.” — Id.,  p.  92. 

But  to  quit  the  lives  of  ladies  who  married  other  men,  and  come  to 
John  Buncle  and  his  own.  John  quits  his  father,  as  Jack  Bruce  did, 
on  account  of  a religious  difference,  and  goes  about  the  world,  seeking 
whom  he  may  marry.  His  first  wife  is  a Miss  Melmoth.  He  had 
known  her  some  time,  when  having  been  led  one  day  into  some  parti- 
cularly serious  reflections  on  life  and  death  by  the  sight  of  a skeleton, 
he  considered  that  it  would  be  a good  thing  to  “commence  a matrimo- 
nial relation  with  some  sensible,  good-humoured,  dear,  delightful  girl  of 
the  mountains,  and  persuade  her  to  be  the  cheerful  partner  of  his  still 
life.”  He  thought  that  “ nature  and  reason  ” would  then  “ci’eate  the 
highest  scenes  of  felicity,  and  that  he  should  live,  as  it  were,  in  the 
suburbs  of  heaven.” 

“ This  is  fine,”  concludes  he,  in  an  ecstacy.  u For  once 
in  my  life  I am  fortunate.  And  suppose  this  partner  I 
want  in  my  solitude  could  be  Miss  Melmoth,  one  of  the 
wisest  and  most  discreet  of  women,  thinking  a bloom  and 
good-humour  itself  in  a human  figure,  then,  indeed,  I must 
be  happy  in  this  silent,  romantic  station.  This  spot  of 
earth  would  then  have  all  the  felicities. — Resolved.  Con' 
clusum  est  contra  Manichczos , said  the  great  St.  Austin  ; 
and  with  a thump  of  his  fist , he  (St.  Austin)  cracked  the 
table.” — Yol.  II.,  Edit.  1770,  p.  62. 

Miss  Melmoth,  being  one  of  the  wisest  as  well  as  loveliest  of 
women,  accepts  of  course  the  hand  that  draws  so  convincing  a con- 
clusion from  the  fist  of  St.  Austin.  For  two  years  they  lead  a life  of 
bliss ; but  at  the  end  of  that  time  she  dies  of  a fever,  and  John  quits  a 
solitude  which  he  could  not  bear. 


144 


JOHN  BUN  OLE. 


His  second  wife  is  the  lovely  Miss  Statia  Ilenley,  “bright  and 
charming  as  Aurora,”  daughter  of  John  Henley,  Esquire,  of  the  Groves 
of  Basil.  She  had  some  fugitive  notions  of  celibacy,  which  our  hero 
refutes  on  Christian  principles;  and,  as  in  the  former  instance,  they 
lead  a life  of  bliss  for  two  years.  The  “illustrious  Statia”  then  dies  of 
the  small-pox,  and  is  laid  by  Charlotte’s  side. 

“ Thus  did  I again  become  a mourner.  I sat  with  my 
eyes  shut  for  three  days;  but  at  last  called  for  my  horse,  to 
try  what  air,  exercise,  and  variety  of  objects  could  do.” — 
Vol.  Ill,  p.  57. 

Air,  exercise,  and  a variety  of  objects  did  very  well ; for  Mr. 
Buncle  misses  his  way  into  the  house  and  grounds  of  the  exquisite  Miss 
Antonia  Cramer,  “a  heaven-born  maid”  and  “innocent  beauty,”  whom 
he  marries  of  course.  But  her,  also,  alas ! he  loses  of  the  small-pox,  at 
the  end  of  two — no,  three  years.  “Four”  days,  too,  he  sits  with  his 
eyes  shut,  which  is  a day  more  than  he  gave  to  Statia ; and  then  he 
left  the  lodge  once  more,  “to  live,  if  he  could,  since  his  religion 
ordered  him  so  to  do,  and  see  what  he  wTas  next  to  meet  with  in  the 
world.” 

“Nota  bene,”  says  our  author  at  this  place.  “As  I 
mention  nothing  of  any  children  by  so  many  wives,  some 
readers  may  perhaps  wonder  at  this  ; and  therefore,  to  give 
a general  answer,  once  for  all,  I think  it  sufficient  to  ob- 
serve, that  I had  a great  many  to  carry  on  the  succession  ; 
but  as  they  never  were  concerned  in  any  extraordinary 
affairs,  nor  ever  did  any  remarkable  things,  that  I ever 
heard  of ; — only  rise  and  breakfast,  read  and  saunter,  drink 
and  eat,  it  would  not  be  fair,  in  my  opinion,  to  make  any 
one  pay  for  their  history.” — P.  151. 

This  kind  of  progeny,  by  the  way,  hardly  does  credit  to  our  hero’s 
very  exquisite  marriages.  But  as  extremes  meet,  and  fair  play  must 
be  seen  to  the  mass  of  the  community,  we  suppose  the  young  Buneles 
were  dull,  in  consideration  of  the  vivacity  of  the  parents. 


JOHN  B UNCLE. 


145 


Mr.  Buncle  having  laid  his  beloved  Antonia  by  the  side  of  his 
Charlotte  and  his  Statia,  now  goes  to  Harrogate ; and  while  there,  “ it 
:s  liis  fortune  to  dance  with  a lady  who  had  the  head  of  an  Aristotle, 
the  heart  of  a primitive  Christian,  and  the  form  of  a Yenus  de  Medicis.” 

“ This  was  Miss  Spence,  of  Westmoreland.  I was  not 
many  hours  in  her  company,”  says  he,  u before  I became 
most  passionately  in  love  with  her.  I did  all  I could  to 
win  her  heart,  and  at  last  asked  her  the  question.  But  be- 
fore I inform  my  readers  what  the  consequence  of  this  was, 
I must  take  some  notice  of  what  I expect  from  the  Critical 
Reviewers.  These  gentlemen  will  attempt  to  raise  the 
laugh.  Our  moralist  (they  will  say)  has  buried  three  wives 
running,  and  they  are  hardly  cold  in  their  graves  before 
he  is  dancing  like  a buck  at  the  Wells,  and  plighting  vows 
to  a fourth  girl,  the  beauty  Miss  Spence.  An  honest  fellow, 
this  Suarez,  as  Pascal  says  of  that  Jesuit,  in  his  Provincial 
Letters. 

“ To  this  I reply,  that  I think  it  unreasonable  and 
impious  to  grieve  immoderately  for  the  dead.  A decent  and 
proper  tribute  of  tears  and  sorrow  humanity  requires  ; but 
when  that  duty  has  been  paid,  we  must  remember,  that  to 
lament  a dead  woman  is  not  to  lament  a wife  ! A wife 
must  be  a living  woman.” — Yol.  III.,  p4  180. 

He  argues  furthermore,  that  it  would  be  sinful  to  behave  on  such 
occasions  as  if  Providence  had  been  unjust.  The  lady  has  been  lent 
but  for  a term ; and  we  must  bow  to  the  limitation.  Besides,  she  is  in 
Heaven ; and  therefore  it  would  be  senseless  to  continue  murmuring, 
and  not  make  the  most  of  the  world  that  remains  to  us,  while  she  is 
“breathing  the  balmy  air  of  Paradise,”  and  being  “beyond  description 
happy.” 

Miss  Spence,  however,  is  a little  coy.  She  is  a very  learned  as  well 
as  charming  young  lady.  She  quotes  Virgil,  discourses  with  her  lover 
on  fluxions  and  the  Differential  Calculus,  and  is  not  to  be  won  quite  so 
fast  as  he  wishes.  Nevertheless,  he  wins  her  at  last ; loses  her  in  six 

7 


146 


JOHN  B UNCLE. 


months  of  n malignant  fever  and  four  doctors;  and  in  less  than  three 
mouths  afterwards,  marries  the  divine  Miss  Emilia  Turner,  of  Skelsmore 
Yale — alas!  for  six  weeks  only.  A chariot  and  four  runs  away  with 
them,  and  his  “charmer  is  killed.”  She  lives  about  an  hour,  repeats 
some  consolatory  verses  to  him  out  of  a Latin  epitaph,  and  bids  him 
adieu  with  “the  spirit  of  an  old  Roman.” 

John’s  next  “intended”  (for  the  marriage  did  not  take  place  in  due 
order)  was  the  enchanting  Miss  Dunk,  famous  for  “ exact  regularity  of 
beauty,  and  elegant  softness  of  propriety.”  This  elegant  softness  of 
propriety  does  not  hinder  the  fair  Agnes  from  running  away  with  him 
from  her  father’s  house;  but  she  lias  scarcely  arrived  at  the  village 
where  they  are  to  be  married,  when  she  falls  sick,  is  laid  out  for  dead, 
and  is  buried  in  the  next  churchyard.  Not  long  afterwards  the  un 
happy  lover  meets  her,  alive,  laughing,  and  taking  no  notice , in  the 
character  of  the  wife  of  Dr.  Stanvil,  an  amiable  anatomist.  The  word 
will  explain  the  accident  that  brought  the  charmer  into  the  doctor’s 
hands.  Buncle,  vexed  as  he  owns  himself  to  lose  her,  could  not  but 
see  the  reasonableness  of  the  result  and  the  folly  of  making  an  “up- 
roar ;”  so  he  gallantly  imitates  the  lady’s  behaviour,  and  rides  off  to  fall 
in  with  that  “fine  creature”  Julia  Fitzgibbons,  as  charming  for  a be- 
witching negligence,  as  Miss  Dunk  wTas  for  a divine  self-possession. 
John  studies  physic  under  her  father;  marries  her  in  the  course  of  two 
years ; and  at  the  end  of  ten  months  loses  her  in  a river  while  they  are 
fishing.  He  sits  with  his  eyes  shut  ten  days  (so  highly  do  his  wives 
increase  in  value);  and  then  calls  his  man  “to  bring  out  the  horses,” 
and  is  off,  on  Christian  principles,  for  wife  the  seventh. 

Who  should  this  be  but  Miss  Dunk  ? His  friend,  Dr.  Stanvil,  her 
husband,  drops  down  ctead  of  an  apoplexy  on  purpose  to  oblige  him. 
The  widow  lets  him  know  that  her  reserve  had  not  proceeded  a bit 
from  dislike ; quite  the  contrary.  She  marries  him ; they  lead  a bliss- 
ful life  for  a year  and  a half,  during  which  he  is  reconciled  with  his 
father,  who  has  become  a convert  to  Unitarianism ; and  then  the  lady 
goes  the  way  of  all  Buncle’s  Avives,  dying  of  his  favourite  uxoricide,  the 
small-pox;  and  John,  after  diverting  himself  at  sea,  retires  to  a “little 
flowery  retreat,”  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London,  to  hear  purling 
streams  on  the  one  hand,  and  news  on  the  other,  and  write  verses 
about  going  to  Heaven. 

The  reader  is  to  bear  in  mind,  that  all  these  marriages  are  inter 
spersed  with  descriptions,  characters,  adventures  of  other  sorts,  natural 


JOHN  BUNGLE. 


147 


history,  and,  above  all,  with  polemics  full  of  the  most  ridiculous 
beggings  of  the  question,  and  the  most  bigoted  invectives  against 
bigotry.  A few  specimens  of  the  table  of  contents  will  show  him 
what  sort  of  reading  he  has  missed : — 

“ The  History  of  Miss  Noel. 

“ A Conversation  in  relation  to  the  Primaevifcy  of  the 
Hebrew  Tongue. 

“ Of  Mrs.  O’Hara’s  and  Mrs.  Grafton’s  Grottoes. 

“ Miss  Noel’s  Notion  of  Hutchinson’s  Cherubim. 

“ The  Origin  of  Earthquakes — of  the  Abyss,  &c. 

u An  Account  of  Muscular  Motion. 

“ An  Account  of  Ten  Extraordinary  Country  Girls. 

“ A'llule  to -Determine  the  Tangents  of  Curved  Lines. 

“ What  a Moral  Shekinah  is. 

“ Of  Mr.  Macknight’s  Harmony  (of  the  Gospels). 

u Description  of  a Society  of  Protestant  Married  Friars. 

“ The  Author  removes  to  Oilfield  Spaw,  on  account  of 
Indisposition  occasioned  hy  Hard  Drinking ; and  his  De- 
flections on  Hard  Drinking. 

u A Discourse  on  Fluxions  between  Miss  Spence  and 
the  Author. 

“ Of  the  Athanasian  Creed. 

“ What  Phlogiston  is.  • 

“ Picture  and  Character  of  Cur  11,  the  Bookseller.”  (He 
says  he  was  “ very  tall,  thin,  ungainly,  goggle-eyed,  white- 
faced, splay-footed,  and  baker-kneed  ; very  profligate,  but  not 
ill-natured.”) 

It  is  impossible  to  be  serious  with  John  Bunele,  Esquire,  jolly  dog, 
Unitarian,  and  Blue  Beard ; otherwise,  if  we  were  to  take  him  at  his 
word,  we  should  pronounce  him,  besides  being  a jolly  dog,  to  be  one  of 
a very  selfish  description,  with  too  good  a constitution  to  correct  him,  a 
prodigious  vanity,  no  feeling  whatever,  and  a provoking  contempt  for 
everything  unfortunate,  or  opposed  to  his  whims.  He  quarrels  with 


148 


JOHN  BUNGLE. 


bigotry,  and  is  a bigot;  with  abuse,  and  riots  in  it.  He  hates  the  cruel 
opinions  held  by  Athanasius,  and  sends  people  to  the  devil  as  an  Arian. 
lie  kills  off  seven  wives  out  of  pure  incontinence  and  love  of  change, 
yet  cannot  abide  a rake  or  even  the  poorest  victim  of  the  rake,  unless 
both  happen  to  be  his  acquaintances.  The  way  in  which  he  tramples 
n the  miserable  wretches  in  the  streets,  is  the  very  rage  and  triumph 
of  liard-heartedness,  furious  at  seeing  its  own  vices  reflected  on  it, 
unredeemed  by  the  privileges  of  law,  divinity,  and  success.  But  the 
truth  is,  John  is  no  more  responsible  for  his  opinions  than  health  itself, 
or  a high-mettled  racer.  He  only  “thinks  he’s  thinking.”  He  does, 
in  reality,  nothing  at  all  but  eat,  drink,  talk,  and  enjoy  himself. 
Amory,  Buncle’s  creator,  ^vas  in  all  probability  an  honest  man,  or  he 
would  hardly  have  been  innocent  enough  to  put  such  extravagances 
on  paper.  What  Mrs.  Amory  thought  of  the  seven  wives  does  not 
appear.  Probably  he  invented  them  before  he  knew  her ; perhaps 
was  not  anxious  to  be  reminded  of  them  afterwards.  When  he  was  in 
the  zenith  of  his  health  and  spirits,  he  must  have  been  a prodigious 
fellow  over  a bottle  and  beefsteak. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  that  by  the  insertion  of  passages  from 
this  fantastical  book  no  disrespect  is  intended  to  the  respectable  sect  of 
Unitarians;  who,  probably,  care  as  little  for  Buncle’s  friendship  as  the 
Trinitarians  do  for  his  enmity.  There  is  apt  to  be  too  little  real 
Christianity  in  polemics  of  any  kind ; and  John  is  no  exception  to  the 
remark.  He  contrives  to  be  so  absurd,  even  when  most  reasonable, 
that  the  charms  of  Nature  herself  and  of  animal  spirits  would  suffer 
under  his  admiration  and  example,  if  readers  could  not  easily  discern 
the  difference ; and  even  the  youngest  need  scarcely  be  warned  against 
overlooking  it.  Our  volumes  are  intended  to  include  all  the  phases  of 
humanity  that  can  be  set  before  them  without  injury  ; and  among 
these  were  not  to  be  omitted  the  eccentric. 


Mgljts  nf  I'oaks  nf  CrancL 

FROM  "WILLIAM  DE  RUBRUQUIS,  MARCO  POLO,  LED  YARD,  AND  MUNGO  PARK, 

In  an  old  house,  or  new  house,  or  any  house,  hut  particularly  in  a 
house  in  the  country,  where  there  are  storms  at  night,  and  the  wind  is 
thundering  in  the  trees,  and  the  rain  comes  dashing  against  the  win- 
dows in  the  gusts  of  it,  who  does  not  think  of  men  at  sea,  of  disasters 
by  shipwreck,  of  husbands  and  sons  far  away,  struggling  perhaps  in 
breakers  on  the  shore,  or  clinging  to  icy  shrouds,  while  we  are  lying  in 
the  safe  and  warm  bed  ? It  seems  as  if  none  of  us  ought  to  be  com- 
fortable on  such  occasions ; and  yet,  provided  we  do  our  duty  to  the 
unfortunate,  we  ought  to  be  as  much  so  as  we  can ; for,  in  the  first  place, 
none  of  our  friends  may  be  in  danger ; and,  secondly,  Nature,  in  the 
course  of  her  harshest  but  always  beneficent  operations,  never  desires 
more  suffering  to  be  inflicted  than  can  be  helped. 

Now,  homes  have  always  a tendency  to  make  us  think  of  remote 
places ; comfortable  beds  remind  us  of  travellers  by  night ; and  com- 
fortable books,  of  travellers  at  all  hours  who  cannot  get  any ; but  of 
all  books,  those  which  are  written  by  travellers  themselves  give  us  a 
quintessence  of  all  these  feelings  : and  the  older  the  books  are,  and  the 
remoter  the  countries  they  treat  of,  the  completer  becomes  our  satisfac- 
tion, because  the  antiquity  itself  has  become  a sort  of  reverend  novelty, 
and  danger  is  over  with  all  parties  except  in  the  happy  shuddering 
sense  of  it  on  the  part  of  the  reader. 

“ With  many  a tempest  had  his  beard  been  shaken,” 

says  Chaucer  of  his  seaman.  It  had  been  shaken,  observe.  So  have 
all  the  beards  of  travellers  of  old ; and  the  older  or  more  ancient  they 
were,  the  more  bearded  one  fancies  them.  An  old  folio  book  of  ro- 


150 


DELIGHTS  OF  HOOKS  OF  TRAVEL. 


mantic  yet  credible  voyages  and  travels  to  read,  au  old  bearded  travel- 
ler for  its  hero,  a fireside  in  an  old  country-house  to  read  it  by,  curtains 
drawn,  and  just  wind  enough  stirring  out  of  doors  to  make  an  accom- 
paniment to  the  billows  or  forests  we  are  reading  of,  this  surely  is  one 
of  the  perfect  moments  of  existence. 

English  reading  of  this  kind,  we  mean  the  reading  of  books  of 
travels  in  the  English  language,  may  be  said  to  commence  with  the 
travels  of  good  old  William  de  Rubruquis  and  accomplished  Marco 
Polo.  See  how  instinctively  our  good  friend  Dr.  John  Harris,  thorough 
disinterested  bookworm,  and  one  of  the  fathers  of  these  collections  of 
knowledge,  intimates  their  superiority  over  their  precursors,  in  the 
Table  of  Contents  prefixed  to  his  huge  folio  volumes,  one  of  which  is 
now  before  us: — 

“An  account  of  the  Several  Passages  to  the  Indies,  both  by  sea 
and  land,  that  have  been  attempted,  discovered,  or  practised  by  the 
Ancients. 

“An  account  of  the  Travels  of  two  Mahommedans  through  India 
and  China  in  the  ninth  century. 

“The  Travels  of  Rabbi  Benjamin,  the  son  of  Jonas  of  Tudela, 
through  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  from  Spain  to  China,  from  the  year 
of  our  Lord  1160  to  11*73 ; from  the  Latin  versions  of  Benedict  Arias 
Montanufl,  and  Constantine  l’Empereur,  compared  with  other  Transla- 
tions into  different  languages.” 

“The  remarkable  Travels  of  William  de  Rubruquis,  a monk,  sent  • 
by  Louis  IX.,  king  of  France,  commonly  styled  St.  Louis,  ambassador 
into  different  parts  of  the  East,  particularly  into  Tartary  and  China, 
a.d.  1253,  containing  abundance  of  curious  Particulars  relating  to  those 
Countries,  written  by  the  Ambassador,  and  addressed  to  his  Royal 
Master  King  Louis. 

“The  curious  and  remarkable  Voyages  and  Travels  of  Marco  Polo,  a 
gentleman  of  Venice,  who,  in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
passed  through  a great  part  of  Asia,  all  the  dominions  of  the  Tartars, 
and  returned  home  by  sea  through  the  Islands  of  the  East  Indies; 
taken  chiefly  from  the  accurate  edition  of  Ramusio,  compared  with  an 
original  manuscript  in  His  Prussian  Majesty’s  library,  and  with  most  of 
the  translations  hitherto  published.” 

The  very  tables  of  contents  in  these  good  folio  writers,  who  give 
“full  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over,”  are  a kind  of  books 
in  themselves,  and  save  us  the  trouble  of  stating  who  their  heroes 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


151 


were.  Only,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  thing,  we  may  add,  that  these  two 
fine  old  voyagers,  from  whom  we  are  about  to  make  some  extracts, 
were,  the  one  as  simple,  honest,  truth-telling,  and  intelligent  a soul 
withal  as  ever  took  monkery  for  a good  thing ; and  the  other,  a man 
of  as  proved  a credibility  in  his  way,  a noble,  trading,  and  accomplish- 
ed Venetian,  though  he  may  have  leant  his  ear  a little  too  much  to 
reports.  He  dealt  in  such  very  large  and  prosperous  matters,  both 
of  jewellery  and  government,  and  saw  such  heaps  of  countries,  and 
cities,  and  populations,  and  revenues,  that  although  he  fairly  overbore 
the  incredulity  of  his  astounded  countrymen  with  the  bushels  of 
diamonds  and  precious  stones  which  he  poured  forth  before  their  eyes 
(in  a scene  which  our  readers  will  meet  with),  he  left  behind  him  the 
nickname  of  Marco  Milione ; and  a worthy  epitomiser  of  his  book  in- 
forms us,  that  the  Venetians  in  their  carnival  entertainments  long  had 
a character  of  that  name,  whose  “ chief  jest  lay  in  describing  cities 
with  a million  of  bridges,  husbands  with  a million  of  wives,  birds  with 
a million  of  wings,  beasts  with  a million  of  legs,”  <fcc.*  But  if  Marco 
had  come  to  life  again,  he  might  have  retorted  by  personifying  a 
buffoon  populace  possessed  of  a million  of  ignorances.  Marco,  like 
Bruce,  has  outlived  misconception.  Every  fresh  traveller  has  tended 
to  confirm  the  relations  both  of  him  and  Rubruquis;  and  as  those 
relations  chiefly  concern  one  of  the  largest,  most  curious,  and  most 
unchanging  countries  and  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  they  present 
• a singular  combination  of  modern  with  ancient  interest.  The  Tartars 
are  still  nomade  rovers  in  one  part  of  their  vast  possessions,  and 
Chinese  rulers  in  the  other.  Their  dresses  are  the  same  as  of  old,  their 
faces  the  same ; they  still  exhibit  the  same  mixture  of  great  and  civiliz- 
ed, yet  clumsy,  undertakings ; and  if  in  their  joint  character  of  Tartar 
and  Chinese,  their  philosopher,  Confucius,  has  rendered  them  a far 
wiser  and  more  thinking  people  than  i3  supposed  even  by  the  thinking 

* Vide  Mr.  MacFarlane,  himself  a traveller,  and  very  shrewd  and  entertaining 
observer,  in  a publication  entitled  the  Romance  of  Travel. , vol.  i.,  p.  239  {Knight'd 
Weekly  Volumes).  We  have  read  Mr.  MacFarlane's  first  two  little  books  with  the 
greatest  pleasure ; but  though  not  wanting  in  curious  extract  as  well  as  abridgment, 
he  is  too  summary  for  the  purpose  of  the  present  book.  Our  extracts  from  Marco 
Polo  and  Rubruquis  are  taken  from  the  revised  republication  of  Harris ; — Navigan- 
tium  atque  Intinerantium  Bibliotheca ; or , a Complete  Collection  of  Voyages 
and  Travels , consisting  of  above  six  hundred  of  the  most  authentic  writers,  <&c., 
two  volumes  folio,  1764.  Harris  includes  Ilackluyt  and  Purchas,  and  translations 
from  the  best  authorities  in  other  languages. 


152 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TRAVEL . 


European  (himself  not  so  free  from  prejudice  and  foolisli  custom  as  lie 
fancies),  their  jealousy  of  innovation  is  a remnant  of  the  old  Tartar 
pride,  as  well  as  an  instinct  of  security.  The  greatest  innovation  in 
China,  next  to  philosophy,  was  tea ; which,  however,  appears  to  be  of 
older  date  than  the  times  of  Polo  and  Rubruquis,  though  Mr.  MacFar- 
lane  has  observed  the  curious  fact  of  their  making  no  mention  of  it. 
There  are  no  three  ideas  which  we  associate  more  strongly  with  the 
two  great  portions  of  the  East,  than  tea  with  the  Chinese,  and  coffee 
and  smoking  with  the  Turks  and  Persians ; yet  tea  is  not  alluded  to 
by  the  oldest  Chinese  writers,  and  the  use  of  coffee  and  tobacco  by 
mankind  dates  no  further  back  than  a few  centuries.  There  is  no 
mention  of  smoking  in  the  Arabian  Nights ; nor  was  there  of  coffee, 
till  Mr.  Lane  found  it  in  one  of  his  additional  stories.  The  Mussul- 
man’s drink  was  sherbet ; and  instead  of  smoke,  he  chewed  dates  and 
tarts. 

This  honesty  on  the  part  of  our  two  good  old  travellers  is,  in 
fact,  a virtue  belonging  emphatically  to  the  best  travellers,  ancient  and 
modern.  Herodotus,  the  first  authentic  traveller,  was  an  honest  man. 
Near  clius,  Alexander’s  admiral,  the  first  authentic  voyager,  wras  an 
honest  man.  The  great  Columbus  was  one ; Drake  was  one ; Dampier, 
Bernier,  Cook,  Bell  of  Antimony,  Niebuhr,  Pocock,  Park,  Ledyard,  the 
other  explorers  of  Africa,  and  the  heroical  men  who  adorn  our  own 
days,  the  Franklins,  Richardsons,  and  Backs.  Bruce’s  fault  was  not 
dishonesty,  but  ostentation.  It  is  impossible  indeed  to  conceive  men  of 
this  kind  unpossessed  of  great  virtues.  Nothing  less  could  animate  or 
support  them.  Hence,  in  reading  the  best  books  of  travels,  wTe  have 
the  double  pleasure  of  feeling  ourselves  to  be  in  the  company  of  the 
brave  and  the  good. 

In  selecting  the  following  extracts  from  some  of  the  most  interest- 
ing of  these  writers,  we  have  gone  upon  the  principle  of  exemplifying 
the  chief  points  of  attraction  in  books  of  voyages  and  travels ; to  wit, 
remoteness  and  obscurity  of  place,  difference  of  custom,  marvellousness 
of  hearsay,  surprising  but  conceivable  truth,  barbaric  or  civilized 
splendour,  savage  or  simple  contentment,  personal  danger,  courage 
and  suffering,  and  moral  enthusiasm. 


WANDERING  TARTARS. 


153 


WILLIAM  DE  RUBRUQUIS. 

And  first  for  a taste  of  William  de  Rubruquis.  It  is  to  be  borne  in 
mind,  tbat  he  was  sent  into  the  East  by  the  French  king  and  crusader 
Louis  IX.,  in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  crusades  had 
opened  up  a new  Christian  interest  all  over  that  quarter  of  the  world. 
Enterprising  monks,  and  remnants  of  Christian  churches  in  Turkey 
and  Armenia,  had  occasioned  exaggerated  notions  of  the  state  of  the 
faith  in  various  parts  of  it ; and  Louis  had  heard  of  the  famous  Prester 
John , or  imaginary  Christian  presbyter  and  king,  reigning  somewhere 
over  Christian  subjects,  who  is  supposed  to  have  meant  the  king  of 
Abyssinia.  Louis  had  sent  some  monks  to  look  out  for  this  royal 
brother  in  vain;  and  now  he  sent  three  more,  to  find  him  in  the 
person  of  a Tartar  king  of  the  name  of  Sartach.  One  of  these  was  our 
good  monk  William,  who  seem3  to  have  been  a Brabanter,  and  who 
had  Latinized  his  name,  after  the  fashion  of  those  times,  from  Ruys- 
brock  or  Rysbruck  into  De  Rubruquis.  The  servant  of  the  church 
militant  went  rejoicing  on  his  perilous  mission,  armed  with  a Bible 
and  prayer-book,  with  a few  lowly  presents  of  wine,  dried  fruit,  and 
biscuits,  which  the  Tartars  plundered  and  laughed  at,  and  with  a heap 
of  bad  arguments  in  divinity,  which  Sartach  appears  to  have  laughed 
at  still  more.  As  to  Prester  John,  William  could  hear  not  a word 
about  him,  except  from  a few  Xestorian  Christians,  who  had  nothing 
to  show  for  the  existence  of  such  a personage.  Prester  John  was 
eternally  sitting  on  his  throne  somewhere;  but  it  was  always  in  some 
other  place. 

Of  Sartach  the  reader  will  find  little  in  our  extracts,  the  glory  of 
the  sight  of  him  having  been  prejudiced  by  that  of  his  brother  chief 
and  vagabond,  Zagatai,  whom  Rubruquis  saw  first,  and  of  whose  state 
and  presence  he  gives  a more  particular  account.  All  the  statements 
of  Rubruquis  are  full  of  the  life  of  truth.  The  appearance  of  Zagatai’s 
carts  with  their  houses  on  them,  moving  towards  the  traveller  as  if  “a 
great  city  came  to  him,”  is  particularly  striking;  and  Zagatai’s  consort, 
with  her  lovely  noseless  face,  has  a virtue  of  repulsion  in  her,  beyond 
all  the  foreign  beauties  we  ever  read  of. 


7 


154 


WANDERING  TART  A RS. 


WANDERING  TARTARS  AND  TIIEIR  CHIEF  ZAGATAI,  IN  THE  THIR- 
TEENTH CENTURY. 

FROM  THE  TRAVELS  OF  WILLIAM  DE  RUBRUQUIS. 

fpiIE  third  day  after  we  were  departed  out  of  these  pre- 
JL  cincts  of  Soldaia,  we  found  the  Tartars,  amongst  whom 
being  entered,  methought  I was  come  into  a new  world, 
whose  life  and  manners  I will  describe  unto  your  highness 
as  well  as  I can. 

They  have  no  settled  habitation,  neither  know  they  to- 
day where  they  shall  lodge  to-morrow. 

They  have  all  Scythia  to  themselves,  which  stretcheth 
from  the  River  Danube  to  the  utmost  extent  of  the  East. 
Each  of  their  captains,  according  to  the  number  of  his  people, 
knows  the  bounds  of  his  pastures,  and  where  he  ought  to  feed 
his  cattle  winter  and  summer,  spring  and  autumn  ; for  in 
the  winter  they  remove  into  warm  regions  southward,  and 
in  the  summer  they  go  up  into  the  cold  regions  northward. 
In  winter,  when  snow  lies  upon  the  ground,  they  feed  their 
cattle  in  pastures  where  4here  is  no  water,  because  then  they 
use  snow  instead  of  water.  Their  houses  in  which  they 
sleep  they  raise  upon  a round  foundation  of  wickers  artifi- 
cially wrought  and  compacted  together,  the  roof  consisting  of 
wickers  also  meeting  above  in  one  little  roundell,  out  of 
which  there  rises  upwards  a neck  like  a chimney,  which  they 
cover  with  white  felt ; and  often  they  lay  mortar  or  white 
earth  upon  the  felt  with  the  powder  of  bones,  that  it  may 
shine  and  look  white  : sometimes  also  they  cover  their  houses 
with  black  felt.  This  cupola  of  their  house  they  adorn  with 
variety  of  pictures. 

Before  the  door  they  hang  a felt  curiously  painted  over, 
for  they  spend  all  their  coloured  felt  in  painting  vines,  trees, 
birds,  and  beasts  thereupon.  These  houses  they  make  so 


WANDERING  TARTARS . 


155 


large  that  they  contain  thirty  feet  in  breadth  ; for  measur- 
ing once  the  breadth  between  the  wheel-ruts  of  one  of  their 
carts  or  wains,  I found  it  to  be  twenty  feet  over,  and  when 
the  house  was  upon  the  cart  it  stretched  over  the  wheels  on 
each  side  five  feet  at  least.  I told  two-and-twenty  oxen  in 
one  draught,  drawing  an  house  upon  a cart,  eleven  in  one 
row  according  to  the  breadth  of  the  cart,  and  eleven  more 
on  the  other  side.  The  axle-tree  of  the  cart  was  of  an  huge 
bigness  like  the  mast  of  a ship,  and  a fellow  stood  in  the 
door  of  the  house  upon  the  forestall  of  the  cart,  driving  the 
oxen.  They  likewise  make  eertain  four  square  baskets  of 
slender  twigs,  as  big  as  great  chests  ; and  afterwards  from 
one  side  to  another  they  frame  an  hollow  lid  or  cover  of 
such -like  twigs,  and  make  a door  in  it  before.  Then  they 
cover  the  said  chest  or  house  with  black  felt,  rubbed  over 
with  tallow  or  sheep’s  milk,  to  keep  the  rain  from  soaking 
through,  which  they  likewise  adorn  with  painting  or  white 
feathers.  Into  these  chests  they  put  their  whole  house- 
hold stuff,  or  treasure,  and  bind  them  upon  other  carts  which 
are  drawn  by  camels,  that  they  may  pass  through  rivers  ; 
neither  do  they  ever  take  down  these  chests  from  their  carts. 

When  they  take  down  their  dwelling-houses,  they  turn 
the  doors  always  to  the  south,  and  next  they  place  the  carts 
laden  with  chests  here  and  there  within  a stone’s  cast  of 
the  house,  insomuch  that  the  house  standeth  between  two 
ranks  of  carts,  as  it  were  between  two  walls. 

The  women  make  themselves  (adorn?)  beautiful  carts, 
which  I am  not  able  to  describe  to  your  majesty  but  by 
pictures  only.  I would  willingly  have  painted  all  things 
for  you,  had  my  skill  being  great  enough  in  that  art.  A 
rich  Tartar  hath  a hundred  or  two  such  carts  with  chests. 
Baatu  hath  sixteen  wives,  every  one  of  which  hath  one  great 
house  besides  other  little  houses,  which  they  place  behind 


156 


WANDERING  TARTARS. 


the  great  one,  being  as  it  were  chambers  for  their  women 
to  dwell,  and  to  eacli  of  the  houses  belong  two  hundred 
carts.  When  they  take  their  houses  off  their  carts,  the 
principal  wife  placeth  her  court  on  the  west,  and  so  all  the 
rest  in  order ; so  that  the  last  wife’s  house  is  on  the  east 
frontier,  and  the  court  of  each  wife  is  distant  from  another 
about  a stone’s  cast. 

Hence  it  is  that  the  court  of  a rich  Tartar  will  appear 
like  a very  large  village,  few  men  being  to  be  seen  therein. 
One  woman  will  guide  twenty  or  thirty  carts  at  once,  for 
their  country  is  very  flat,  and  they  fasten  the  carts  with 
camels  or  oxen  one  behind  another.  A wench  sits  in  the 
foremost  cart  driving  the  oxen,  and  all  the  rest  of  them- 
selves follow  at  a like  pace.  When  they  come  to  a place 
which  is  a bad  passage,  they  loose  them,  and  guide  them 
one  by  one,  for  they  go  at  a slow  pace,  and  not  much  faster 
than  an  ox  can  walk. 

On  my  arrival  among  these  barbarous  people  I thought, 
as  I before  observed,  that  I was  come  into  a new  world ; 
for  they  came  flocking  about  us  on  horseback,  after  they 
had  made  us  wait  for  them  in  the  shade  under  the  black 
carts.  The  first  question  they  asked  was,  whether  we  had 
ever  been  with  them  heretofore  or  not ; and  on  our  answer- 
ing that  we  had  not,  they  began  impudently  to  beg  our 
victuals  from  us.  We  gave  them  some  of  our  biscuit  and 
wine,  which  we  had  brought  with  us  from  the  town  of  Sol- 
dai ; and  having  drunk  off  one  flaggon  of  our  wine,  they 
demanded  another,  telling  us  that  a man  does  not  go  into  a 
house  with  one  foot.  We  gave  them  no  more,  however,  ex- 
cusing ourselves  that  we  had  but  little.  Then  they  asked 
us  whence  we  came,  and  whither  we  were  bound.  I answered 
them  in  these  words,  That  we  had  heard  concerning  their 
Prince  Sartach,  that  he  was  become  a Christian,  and  that 


WANDERING  TARTARS. 


157 


unto  him  our  determination  was  to  travel,  having  your 
majesty’s  letter  to  deliver  unto  him.  They  were  very  in- 
quisitive to  know  if  I came  of  mine  own  accord,  or  whether 
I was  sent.  I answered  that  no  man  compelled  me  to  come, 
neither  had  I come  unless  I had  keen  willing ; and  that 
there  I was  come,  according  to  my  own  will  and  that  of  my 
superior.  I took  the  utmost  care  never  to  say  I was  your 
majesty’s  ambassador.  Then  they  asked  what  we  had  in 
our  carts,  whether  it  were  gold,  silver,  or  rich  garments  to 
take  to  Sartach.  I answered  that  Sartach  should  see  what 
we  had  brought  when  we  were  come  unto  him ; that  they 
had  nothing  to  do  to  ask  such  questions,  but  rather  ought 
to  conduct  me  unto  their  captain  ; and  that  he,  if  he  thought 
proper,  should  cause  me  to  be  directed  to  Sartach — if  not, 
that  I would  return ; for  there  was  in  the  same  province 
one  of  Baatu’s  kinsmen,  called  Zagatai,  to  whom  the  Em- 
peror of  Constantinople  had  written  letters  to  suffer  me  to 
pass  through  his  territories. 

With  this  answer  of  ours  they  were  satisfied,  giving  us 
horses  and  oxen  and  two  men  to  conduct  us.  But  before 
they  would  allow  us  these  necessaries,  they  made  us  wait  a 
long  while,  begging  our  bread  for  their  brats,  wondering  at 
all  things  they  saw  about  our  servants,  as  their  knives, 
gloves,  purses,  and  points,  and  desiring  to  have  them.  I 
excused  myself,  saying  we  had  a long  way  to  travel,  and  we 
could  not  deprive  ourselves  of  things  necessary  to  finish  so 
long  a journey.  They  said  I was  a niggardly  scoundrel. 
It  is  true  they  took  nothing  by  force  from  me,  but  they  will 
beg  all  they  see  very  importunately ; and  if  a man  bestows 
anything  upon  them,  it  is  but  lost ; for  they  are  thankless 
wretches.  They  esteem  themselves  lords , and  think  that 
nothing  should  be  denied  them  by  any  man.  If  a man 
gives  them  nothing,  and  afterwards  stands  in  need  of  their 


158 


WANDERING  TARTARS. 


assistance,  they  will  do  nothing  for  him.  They  gave  us  of 
their  cows7  milk  to  drink  after  their  butter  was  churned 
out  of  it,  which  was  very  sour,  which  they  call  Apram  ; so 
we  departed  from  them ; and  indeed  it  seemed  to  me  that 
wc  were  escaped  out  of  the  hands  of  devils.  The  next  day 
we  were  introduced  to  their  captain.  From  the  time  where- 
in we  departed  from  Soldai  till  we  arrived  at  the  court  of 
Sartach,  which  was  the  space  of  two  months,  we  never  lay 
in  house  or  tent,  but  always  under  the  canopy  of  heaven, 
and  in  the  open  air,  or  under  our  carts ; neither  saw  we  any 
village,  or  heard  of  any  building  where  any  village  had  been  ; 
but  the  graves  of  the  Comanians.we  saw  in  great  abun- 
dance. 

We  met  the  day  following  with  the  carts  of  Zagatai, 
laden  with  houses,  and  I really  thought  that  a great  city 
came  to  meet  me.  I wondered  at  the  multitudes  of  drove3 
of  oxen  and  of  horses,  and  droves  of  sheep  ; I could  see  but 
few  men  that  guided  all  these,  upon  which  I inquired  how 
many  men  he  had  under  him,  and  they  told  me  that  he  had 
not  above  five  hundred  in  all.  and  that  one-half  of  this  num- 
ber never  lay  in  another  lodging.  Then  the  servant,  which 
was  our  guide,  told  me  that  I must  present  somewhat  to 
Zagatai,  and  so  he  caused  us  to  stay,  going  themselves 
before  to  give  notice  of  our  coming.  By  this  time  it  was 
past  three,  and  they  unladed  their  houses  near  a river,  and 
there  came  unto  us  his  interpreter,  who,  being  informed  by 
us  that  we  were  never  there  before,  demanded  some  of  our 
victuals,  and  we  granted  his  request.  He  also  required  of 
us  some  garment  as  a reward,  because  he  was  to  interpret 
our  message  to  his  master.  We  excused  ourselves  as  well 
as  we  could.  Then  he  asked  us  what  we  would  prefer  to 
his  lord,  and  we  took  a flaggon  of  wine,  and  filled  a basket 
with  biscuit,  and  a salver  with  apples  and  other  fruits ; but 


WANDERING  TARTARS : 


159 


he  was  not  contented  therewith,  because  we  brought  him 
not  some  rich  garment. 

We  were  however  admitted  into  his  presence  with  fear 
and  bashfulness.  He  sat  on  his  bed,  holding  a musical 
instrument  in  his  hand,  and  his  wife  sat  by  him,  who,  in  my 
opinion,  had  cut  and  pared  her  nose  between  the  eyes  that 
she  might  seem  to  be  more  flat-nosed  ; for  she  had  left  her- 
self no  nose  at  all  in  that  place,  having  anointed  the  very 
scar  with  black  ointment,  as  she  also  did  her  eyebrows, 
which  sight  seemed  to  us  most  ugly.  Then  I repeated  to 
him  the  same  words  which  I had  done  in  other  places ; for 
we  were  directed  in  this  circumstance  by  some  that  had 
been  amongst  the  Tartars,  that  we  should  never  vary  in  our 
tale.  I besought  him  that  he  would  accept  this  small  gift 
at  our  hands,  excusing  myself  that  I was  a monk,  and  that 
it  was  against  our  profession  to  possess  gold,  silver,  or  pre- 
cious garments,  and  therefore  that  T had  not  any  such  thing 
to  give  him,  unless  he  would  receive  some  part  of  our 
victuals  instead  of  a blessing.  He  caused  thereupon  our 
present  to  be  received,  and  immediately  distributed  the 
same  amongst  his  men,  who  were  met  together  for  that  pur- 
pose, to  drink  and  make  merry.  I delivered  also  to  him 
the  Emperor  of  Constantinople’s  letters,  eight  days  after 
the  feast  of  Ascension,  and  he  sent  them  to  Soldai  to  have 
them  interpreted  there  ; for  they  were  written  in  Greek, 
and  he  had  none  about  him  that  was  skilled  in  the  Greek 
tongue. 

He  asked  us  if  we  could  drink  any  Cosmos — that  is  to 
say,  mare’s  milk,  for  those  that  are  Christians  among  them, 
as  the  Russians,  Grecians,  and  Alans,  who  keep  their  own 
laws  very  strictly,  will  not  drink  thereof,  for  they  account 
themselves  no  Christians  after  they  have  once  drank  of  it ; 
and  their  priests  reconcile  them  to  the  church,  as  if  they 


100 


WANDERING  TARTARS . 


had  renounced  the  Christian  faith.  I answered,  that  as  yet 
we  had  sufficient  of  our  own  to  drink,  and  that  when  it 
failed  us  we  should  be  constrained  to  drink  such  as  should 
be  given  us.  lie  inquired  also  what  was  contained  in  the 
letters  your  majesty  sent  to  Sartach.  I answered  they  were 
sealed  up,  and  nothing  contained  in  them  but  friendly 
words.  And  he  asked  what  words  we  would  deliver  unto 
Sartach.  I answered  the  words  of  Christian  Faith.  He 
asked  again  what  those  words  were,  for  he  was  very  desirous 
to  hear  them.  Then  I expounded  to  him,  as  well  as  I 
could  by  my  interpreter,  who  was  a very  sorry  one,  the 
Apostle’s  Creed,  which  after  he  had  heard  he  shook  his  head. 

Here  endeth  (as  far  as  our  pages  are  concerned)  good  William  de 
Rubruquis ; and  here  beginneth  the  good  Signor  Jeweller  and  noble 
Venetian,  Messer  Marco  Polo. 


MAKCO  POLO. 

Harris  suffered  his  pen  to  slip  in  his  table  of  contents  when  h< 
described  Marco  Polo  travelling  in  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century 
That  was  the  date  of  the  father  and  uncle  of  Marco,  who  went  intc 
China  and  Tartary  before  him.  Marco,  however,  includes  the  history 
of  their  travels  in  his  own,  so  that  Harris’s  date  does  not  violate  the 
spirit  of  the  truth.  The  father  and  uncle,  Niccolo  and  Maffeo  Polo, 
had  had  better  luck  than  Rubruquis.  They  saw  not  only  the  wild  and 
roving  Tartars,  but  the  civilized ; those  who  lived  in  great  cities,  not. 
of  houses  on  carts,  but  of  magnificent  palaces,  descendants  of  the  con- 
querors under  Genghis  Khan,  lord  of  India,  Persia,  and  Northern 
China,  whose  descendant  Kubla  (Coleridge’s  Kubla)  was  now  reigning 

“ In  Cambalu,  seat  of  Cathaian  Khan.” 

Paradise  Lost. 

Milton  had  seen  him  before  Coleridge,  in  the  pages  of  Marco  Polo.  The 


MARCO  POLO. 


161 


great  poet  had  also  seen  the  Tartars  of  William  de  Rubruquis,  and  the 
subsequent  Chinese  improvements  on  their  carts : — 

“As  when  a vulture  on  Imaus  bred, 

Whose  snowy  ridge  the  roving  Tartar  bounds, 

Dislodging  from  a region  scarce  of  prey 
To  gorge  the  flesh  of  lambs  or  yeanling  kids 
On  hills  where  flocks  are  fed,  flies  tow'rds  the  springs 
Of  Ganges  or  Ilydaspes,  Indian  streams. 

But  in  his  way  lights  on  the  barren  plains 

Of  Sericana,  where  Chineses  drive 

With  sails  and  wind  their  cany  waggons  light; 

So  on  this  windy  sea  of  land  the  Fiend 
Walk’d  up  and  down  alone,  bent  on  his  prey.” 

Id.,  Book  III. 

The  reader  will  also  find  Milton  presently  with  Marco  Polo  in  the 
desert.  He  was  fond  of  the  East  and  South,  from  Tartary  down  to 
Morocco,  from  the  red  and  white  complexions  of  the  conical-hatted 
sons  of  Hologou  down  to  the 

“ Dusk  faces  with  white  silken  turbans  wreath’d.” 

But  what  poet  is  not  ? Chaucer  got  his  * Squire's  Tale , nobody  knows 
how,  from 

“ Sarra,  in  the  land  of  Tartary.” 

Other  old  English  poets  confounded,  or  chose  to  confound, 

“ the  loathly  lakes  of  Tartary” 

with  those  of  Tartarus  ; at  least,  one  word  with  the  other.  They  thought 
both  the  places  so  grim  and  remote,  as  to  deserve  to  have  the  same 
appellation. 

Niccolo  and  Maffeo  Polo  went  into  the  East  to  trade  in  jewels. 
They  entered  the  service  of  Kubla,  assisted  him  in  his  wars  with  their 
knowledge  of  engineering,  and  became  agents  for  religious  affairs  be- 
tween the  Pope  and  their  master,  who  (with  a liberality  which  is  apt 
to  be  more  honourable  to  the  person  who  is  willing  to  hear,  than  to 
the  zealots  who  assume  that  they  are  qualified  to  teach  him)  was  desir- 
ous to  understand  what  a people  so  clever  in  the  affairs  of  this  world 
had  to  tell  him  respecting  the  world  unknown.  On  their  return  to  the 
Khan  (which  terminated  in  nothing  to  that  end),  they  brought  with 
them  the  younger  Polo  Marco,  who  also  entered  the  Khan’s  service, 


162 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


and  who  subsequently  became  the  most  enterprising  traveller  of  all 
three,  and  the  relater  of  their  adventures.  lie  told  the  history  to  a 
friend,  who  took  it  from  his  mouth  ; and  hence  it  is,  that  he  is  always 
spoken  of  in  the  third  person. 

The  reader  must  conceive  Marco  in  full  progress  for  the  court  of  the 
Great  Khan,  and  about  to  pass  over  the  terrible  desert  of  Lop  or  Kobi, 
whc*re  he  (or  Dr.  Harris)  has  omitted,  however,  what  we  could  swear 
we  once  beheld  in  it,  by  favour  of  some  other  account ; to  wit,  a dread- 
ful unendurable  face , that  used  to  stare  at  people  as  they  went  by. 
Polo’s  account,  deprived  of  this  rich  bit  of  horror,  is  comparatively 
tame ; but  still  the  sounds,  and  the  invisible  host  of  passengers,  are 
much ; and  the  poetic  reader  will  trace  the  footsteps  of  Milton,  who 
has  clearly  been  listening,  in  this  same  desert  of  Lop,  to  the  ghastly 
calling  of  people’s  names — to 

“ Voices  calling  in  the  dead  of  night, 

And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men’s  names 
On  sands  and  shores  and  desert  wildernesses.” 

He  has  another  line  in  the  same  passage  about  “ghastly  fury’s  appari- 
tion,” which  we  cannot  but  think  was  suggested  by  our  friend,  the 
dreadful  face. 


MARCO  POLO  PASSES  THE  DESERT  OF  LOP. 

CASCIAN  is  subject  to  the  Tartars;  the  name  of  the 
province  and  chief  city  is  the  same  ; it  hath  many  cities 
and  castles,  many  precious  stones  are  found  there  in  the 
rivers,  especially  jasper  and  chalcedons,  which  merchants 
carry  quite  to  Ouaback  to  sell  and  make  great  gain  ; from 
Piem  to  this  province,  and  quite  through  it  also,  is  a sandy 
soil  with  many  bad  waters  and  few  good.  When  an  army 
passes  through  the  province,  all  the  inhabitants  thereof,  with 
their  wives,  children,  cattle,  and  all  their  house  stuff  fly  two 
days’  journey  into  the  sands,  where  they  know  that  great 
waters  are,  and  stay  there,  and  carry  their  corn  thither, 
also  to  hide  it  in  the  sand  after  harvests  from  the  like  fears. 


MARGO  POLO  PASSES  THE  DESERT  OF  LOP . 163 


The  wind  doth  so  deface  their  steps  in  the  sand,  that  their 
enemies  cannot  find  their  way. 

Departing  from  this  province,  you  are  to  travel  five  days’ 
journey  through  the  sands,  where  no  other  water  almost 
than  that  which  is  bitter  is  anywhere  to  be  found,  until  you 
come  to  the  city  called  Lop,  which  is  a great  city  from 
which  is  the  entrance  of  a great  desert,  called  also  the  wil- 
derness of  Lop,  seated  between  the  east  and  the  north-east. 
The  inhabitants  are  Mahommedans,  subject  to  the  Great 
Khan. 

In  the  city  of  Lop,  merchants  who  desire  to  pass  over 
the  desert,  cause  all  necessaries  to  be  provided  for  them, 
and  when  victuals  begin  to  fail  in  the  desert,  they  kill  their 
asses  and  camels,  and  eat  them.  They  make  it  mostly  their 
choice  to  use  camels,  because  they  are  sustained  with  little 
meat,  and  bear  great  burthens.  They  must  provide  victuals 
for  a month  to  cross  it  only,  for  to  go  through  it  lengthways 
would  require  a year’s  time.  They  go  through  the  sands 
and  barren  mountains,  and  daily  find  water  ; yet  it  is  some- 
times so  little  that  it  will  hardly  suffice  fifty  or  a hundred 
men  with  their  beasts  : and  in  three  or  four  places  the  water 
is  salt  and  bitter.  The  rest  of  the  road,  for  eight-and-twenty 
days,  is  very  good.  In  it  there  are  not  either  beast,  or  birds  ; 
they  say  that  there  dwell  many  spirits  in  this  wilderness, 
which  cause  great  and  marvellous  illusions  to  travellers,  and 
make  them  perish  ; for  if  any  stay  behind,  and  cannot  see 
his  company,  he  shall  be  called  by  his  name,  and  so  going 
out  of  the  way,  is  lost.  In  the  night  they  hear  as  it  were 
the  noise  of  a company,  which  taking  to  be  theirs  they  per- 
ish likewise.  Concerts  of  music-instruments  are  sometimes 
heard  in  the  air,  likewise  drums  and  noise  of  armies.  They 
go  therefore  close  together,  hang  bells  on  their  beasts'  necks, 
and  set  marks  if  any  stray. 


104 


DELIGHTS  OF  HOOKS  OF  TRAVEL. 


We  must  now  suppose  our  traveller  arrived  at  the  dwelling  ot 
KUBLA  KIIAN. 

This  magnificent  Tartar  prince  has  always  been  an  object  of  inter- 
est with  readers  of  the  old  travellers.  A tine  poet  has  noticed  him, 
and  rendered  him  a hundred  times  more  so.  Coleridge  was  reading  an 
account  of  one  of  his  structures  in  Purchas’s  Pilgrimage , when  he  fell 
into  a sleep  occasioned  by  opium,  during  which,  he  tells  us,  he  poured 
forth  some  hundreds  of  lines,  of  which  an  accident  deprived  us  of  more 
than  the  divine  fragment  known  under  the  title  of  Kubla  Khan , or  a 
Visioji  in  a Dream.  Opium  takers  are  said  to  have  such  visions ; but 
only  such  an  opium  taker  as  Coleridge  ever  had  one,  wre  suspect,  so 
thoroughly  fit  and  poetical,  or  related  it  in  such  exquisite  music.  It  is 
impossible  to  refer  to  it,  and  not  repeat  it.  The  reader  shall  first  have 
not  only  the  words  which  the  poet  quotes  from  Purchas  as  having  occa- 
sioned it,  but  the  original  of  Purchas  from  Marco  Polo.  He  will  then 
see  what  a poet  can  do,  even  for  a book  of  old  travels  and  a king  of 
kings. 

Coleridge  says  he  fell  asleep  while  reading  “ the  following  sentence, 
or  words  of  the  same  substance,”  from  Purchas’s  book : — “ Here  the 
Khan  Kubla  commanded  a palace  to  be  built,  and  a stately  garden 
thereunto ; and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  enclosed  with  a 
wall.”  “The  author,”  he  proceeds,  “continued  for  about  three  hours 
m a profound  sleep,  at  least  of  the  external  senses,  during  which  he 
has  the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could  not  have  composed  less 
than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines ; if  that  indeed  can  be  called  com- 
position in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before  him  as  things,  with  a 
parallel  production  of  the  corresponding  expressions,  without  any  sen- 
sation, or  a consciousness  of  effort.  On  awaking,  he  appeared  to  him- 
self to  have  a distinct  recollection  of  the  whole ; and  taking  his  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are 
here  preserved.  At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out  by  a 
person  on  business  from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above  an  hour ; 
and  on  his  return  to  his  room,  found  to  his  no  small  surprise  and  mor- 
tification, that  though  he  still  retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollec- 
tion of  the  general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the  exception  of 
some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines  and  images,  all  the  rest  had  passed 
away  like  the  images  on  the  surface  of  a stream  into  which  a stone  had 
been  cast ; but,  alas ! without  the  after  restoration  of  the  latter.” 


KUBLA  KHAN'S  PALACE  AT  XANADU. 


165 


The  veracity  of  this  statement  has  been  called  in  question  ; by  what 
right  of  superior  knowledge  to  the  poet’s  own,  we  cannot  say.  For 
our  parts,  we  devoutly  believe  it.  We  know  very  little  of  opium  ; but 
perhaps  every  writer  of  verse  has  experienced  what  it  is  to  pour  forth 
poetry  in  dreams,  though  he  may  have  been  as  unable  to  call  his  pro- 
duction to  mind,  as  Scarlatti  was  his  famous  “ Devil’s  Sonata.”  Cole- 
ridge, by  some  process  perhaps  of  the  mysterious  herb  which  had  set 
him  to  sleep,  had  the  ability  given  him ; perhaps  he  had  not  been 
asleep  at  all  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  but  in  some  state  of  what 
is  called  coma,  vigil.  At  all  events,  the  poem,  exquisite  as  it  is,  is  no 
finer  than  he  could  have  written  awake  ; and  what  he  could  have  writ- 
ten awake,  he  might  have  conceived  asleep,  especially  under  the  pre- 
ternatural kind  of  excitement  to  which  opiates  give  rise. 

The  following  is  Marco  Polo’s  account  of  the  structure  alluded  to. 
We  give  it,  however,  not  from  Harris,  but  from  the  later  and  better 
pages  of  Mr.  Murray,  who  published  not  long  ago  the  completest  ver- 
sion of  the  travels  of  Marco  Polo.  The  “ Shandu  ” of  Mr.  Murray  is 
the  “ Xanadu”  of  Coleridge. 


KUBLA  khan’s  PALACE  AT  XANADU. 

At  Shandu  in  Tartary,  near  the  western  frontier  of 
China,  he  has  built  a very  large  palace  of  marble  and  other 
valuable  stones.  The  halls  are  gilded  all  over,  and  won- 
derfully beautiful,  and  a space  sixteen  miles  in  circuit  is 
surrounded  by  a wall  within  which  are  fountains,  rivers,  and 
meadows.  He  finds  stags,  deer,  and  wild-goats,  to  give  for 
food  to  the  falcons  and  ger-falcons,  which  he  keeps  in  cages, 
and  goes  out  once  a week  to  sport  with  them.  Frequently 
he  rides  through  that  enclosure,  having  a leopard  on  the 
crupper  of  his  horse,  which,  whenever  he  is  inclined,  he  lets 
go,  and  it  catches  a stag,  deer,  or  wild-goat,  which  is  given 
to  the  ger-falcons  in  the  cage.  In  this  park,  too,  the  mon- 
arch has  a large  palace  framed  of  cane,  in  interior  gilded 
all  over,  having  pictures  of  beasts  and  birds  most  skilfully 
worked  on  it.  The  roof  is  of  the  same  material,  and  so 


DELIGHTS  Ob'  BOOKS  OF  TRAVELS. 


IGo 

richly  varnished  that  no  water  can  penetrate.  I assure  you 
that  these  canes  are  more  than  three  palms  thick,  and  from 
ten  to  fifteen  paces  long.  They  are  cut  lengthways,  from 
one  knot  to  the  other,  and  then  arranged  so  as  to  form  the 
roof.  The  whole  structure  is  so  disposed  that  the  Khan, 
when  he  pleases,  can  order  it  to  be  taken  down,  for  it  is 
supported  by  more  than  two  hundred  cords  of  silk.  His 
majesty  remains  there  three  months  of  the  year,  June,  July, 
and  August,  the  situation  being  cool  and  agreeable  ; and 
during  this  period  his  palace  of  cane  is  set  up,  while  all  the 
rest  of  the  year  it  is  down.  On  the  28th  of  August,  he 
departs  thence,  and  for  the  following  purpose : — there  are 
a race  of  mares  white  as  snow,  with  no  mixture  of  any  other 
colour,  and  in  number  10,000,  whose  milk  must  not  be 
drunk  by  any  one  who  is  not  of  imperial  lineage.  Only  one 
other  race  of  men  can  drink  it,  called  Boriat,  because  they 
gained  a victory  for  Gengis  Khan.  When  one  of  these 
white  animals  is  passing,  the  Tartars  pay  respect  to  it  as  a 
great  lord,  standing  by  to  make  way  for  it. 

Now  for  the  architecture  and  landscape  gardening  of  the  po^  ; — 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A stately  pleasure-dome  decree, 

Where  Alpli,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girded  round  : 

And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  j 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 


KUBLA  KHAN'S  PALACE  AT  XANADU. 


16 


But,  oh  ! that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a cedarn  cover  ! 

A savage  place  ! as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e’er  beneath  a waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover  ! 

And  from  this  chasm  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething. 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced : 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher’s  flail : 

And  ’mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles,  meandering  with  a mazy  motion, 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a lifeless  ocean : 

And  ’mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a miracle  or  rare  device, 

A sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 

A damsel  with  a dulcimer 
In  a vision  once  I saw ; 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play’d, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I revive  within  me 


168 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a deep  delight  ’t  would  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long 
I would  build  that  dome  in  air, 

That  sunny  dome  ! those  caves  of  ice  ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry — beware  ! beware  ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 

Weave  a circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  lips  with  holy  dread. 

For  he  on  honey  dew  hath  fed, 

And  drank  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Neither  Marco  Polo,  nor  Rubruquis,  no,  nor  Raleigh  himself,  nor  any 
traveller  that  existed,  ever  saw  a vision  like  that ! 

But  we  must  hasten  out  of  its  divine  company.  Marco  resumes 
with  an  account  of 

KUBLA  khan’s  PERSON  AND  STATE. 

The  Great  Khan,  lord  of  lords,  named  Kublai,  is  of  a 
fine  middle  size,  neither  too  tall  nor  too  short ; he  has  a 
beautiful  fresh  complexion,  and  well-proportioned  limbs. 
His  colour  is  fair  and  vermeil  like  the  rose,  his  eyes  dark 
and  fine,  his  nose  well  formed  and  placed.  He  has  four 
ladies,  who  always  rank  as  his  wives ; and  the  eldest  son, 
born  to  him  by  one  of  them,  succeeds  as  the  rightful  heir 
of  the  empire.  They  are  named  empresses  ; each  bears  his 
name,  and  holds  a court  of  her  own ; there  is  not  one  who 
has  not  three  hundred  beautiful  maidens,  with  eunuchs,  and 
many  other  male  and  female  attendants,  so  that  some  of  the 
courts  of  these  ladies  contain  10,000  persons. 

Kubla  resides  in  the  vast  city  of  Kambalu,  three  months 
in  the  year,  December,  January,  and  February,  and  has  here 
his  great  palace,  which  I will  now  describe. 


KUBLA  KHAN\S  PERSON  AND  STATE. 


169 


The  floor  rises  ten  palms  above  the  ground,  and  the  roof 
is  exceedingly  lofty.  The  walls  of  the  chambers  and  stairs 
are  all  covered  with  gold  and  silver,  and  adorned  with  pic- 
tures of  dragons,  horses,  and  other  races  of  animals.  The 
hall  is  so  spacious  that  6000  can  sit  down  to  banquet ; and 
the  number  of  apartments  is  incredible.  The  roof  is  exter- 
nally painted  with  red,  blue,  green,  and  other  colours,  and  is 
so  varnished  that  it  shines  like  crystal,  and  is  seen  to  a great 
distance  around. 

The  Tartars  celebrate  a festival  on  the  day  of  their  na- 
tivity. The  birthday  of  the  Khan  is  on  the  28th  of  Septem- 
ber, and  is  the  greatest  of  all,  except  that  at  the  beginning 
of  the  year.  On  this  occasion  he  clothes  himself  in  robes 
of  beaten  gold,  and  his  twelve  barons  and  12,000  soldiers 
wear,  like  him,  dresses  of  a uniform  color  and  shape  ; not 
that  they  are  so  costly,  but  similarly  made  of  silk,  gilded, 
and  bound  by  a cincture  of  gold.  ' Many  have  their  robes 
adorned  with  precious  stones  and  pearls,  so  as  to  be  worth 
10,000  golden  bezants.  The  Great  Khan,  twelve  times  in 
the  year,  presents  to  those  barons  and  knights  robes  of  the 
same  colour  with  his  own  ; and  this  is  what  no  lord  in  the 
world  can  do. 

And  now  I will  relate  a most  wonderful  thing,  namely, 
that  a large  lion  is  led  into  his  presence,  which  as  soon  as 
it  sees  him,  drops  down,  and  makes  a sign  of  deep  humility, 
owning  him  for  its  lord,  and  moving  about  without  any 
chain. 

Chaucer  had  certainly  read  of  Kubla.  He  has  described  him  sitting, 
as  above,  at  his  table, 

“ Harking  his  minstrell6s  their  thinges  play 
Before  him  at  his  board,  deliciously.'” 

And  so,  leaving  him  in  this  proper  imperial  attitude  with  his  minstrelsy, 
8 


J 70 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 

his  lords,  and  his  lion,  we  take  leave  of  Marco  and  his  mighty  Khan 
Nations  in  those  times  appear  to  have  tried  what  they  could  do  to  ag- 
gravate the  welfare  and  importance  of  a single  man.  It  was  a very 
absurd  though  a very  amusing  endeavour.  The  single  man,  at  his  peril, 
at  least  in  Europe,  must  now  try  what  he  can  do  to  aggravate  the  wel- 
fare and  importance  of  the  people. 

We  must  not  quit,  however,  the  old  times  of  travels,  and  the  most 
authentic  of  their  illustrators,  without  quoting  some  passages  in  the 
narratives  of  Mandeville,  Oderico,  and  others,  whose  names,  though  not 
worthy  to  stand  beside  the  former,  are  associated  with  those  regions  of 
wild  and  preternatural  interest  which  lie  between  truth  and  liction ; 
places,  of  which  more  is  truly  related  than  the  narrators  have  been 
given  credit  for,  but  with  such  colouring  from  the  reports  of  others, 
and  from  their  own  excited  imagination,  as  give  us  leave  to  doubt  or  to 
believe  just  as  much  as  may  be  suitable  to  the  frame  of  mind  in  which 
we  read  them.  The  dreadful  or  delightful  sounds,  for  instance,  which 
these  old  travellers  heard  in  deserts,  have  been  reasonably  attributed 
to  winds  and  other  natural  causes ; and  the  terrible  “faces”  which  they 
saw,  to  robbers  or  gigantic  sculpture.  But  what  care  we  for  “ pure 
reason,”  when  we  desire  romance  ? There  is  enough  mystery  in  every- 
thing, however  commonplace,  to  leave  its  causes  inexplicable ; and  if 
we  choose  to  have  our  mysterious  music  or  our  terrible  face  without 
the  alloy  of  explanation,  “ neat  as  imported,”  we  have  all  the  right  in 
the  world,  whether  as  boys  or  sages,  to  have  the  wish  indulged. 

FRIAR  ODERIc’S  RICH  MAN  WHO  WAS  FED  BY  FIFTY  VIRGINS. 

While  in  the  province  of  Mangi,  or  Southern  China,  I 
passed  by  the  palace  of  a rich  man,  who  is  continually  at- 
tended upon  by  fifty  young  virgins,  who  feed  him  at  every 
meal  as  a bird  feeds  her  young ; and  all  the  time  they  are 
so  employed,  they  sing  to  him  most  sweetly.  The  revenues 
of  this  man  are  thirty  tomans  of  tagars  of  rice,  each  toman 
being  10,000  tagars,  and  one  tagar  is  the  burthen  of  An  ass. 
His  palace  is  two  miles  in  circuit,  and  is  paved  with  alter- 
nate layers  of  gold  and  silver.  Near  the  wall  of  his  palace 
there  is  an  artificial  mould  of  gold  and  silver,  having  turrets 


OF  T11E  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 


171 


and  steeples  and  other  magnificent  ornaments,  contrived  for 
the  solace  and  recreation  of  this  great  man. 

The  personal  title  of  the  following  tremendous  old  gentleman 
(called  “ Senex”  by  the  first  translator  of  Oderico)  means  nothing  more, 
with  the  “reasonable,”  than  Sheik,  or  Elder.  He  is  a kind  of  dreadful 
Alderman.  But  who  would  part  with  the  words  “ Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain,” — their  wrinkled  old  vigour  and  reverend  infamy  ? He  is 
first* cousin  of  the  shocking  old  fellow  in  Sinbad,  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea,  who  rode  upon  the  shoulders  of  that  voyager  like  a nightmare, 
and  stuck  his  knees  in  his  sides.  It  is  proper  to  retain  the  “ Of  ” in  the 
old  heading  of  the  story.  “ Of  the  old  man,”  Ac.,  is  much  more  an- 
cient and  mysterious  than  the  modern  custom  of  beginning  with  “ The F 


OF  THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Proceeding  on  my  travels  towards  the  south,  I arrived 
at  a certain  pleasant  and  fertile  country,  called  Melistorte, 
in  which  dwells  a certain  aged  person  called  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountain.  This  person  had  surrounded  two  moun- 
tains by  a high  wall,  within  which  he  had  the  finest  gardens 
and  finest  fountains  in  the  world,  inhabited  by  great  numbers 
of  most  beautiful  virgins.  It  was  likewise  supplied  with  fine 
horses,  and  every  article  that  could  contribute  to  luxury  and 
delightful  solace  ; on  which  account  it  was  called  by  the 
people  of  the  country,  the  terrestrial  paradise.  Into  this 
delightful  residence  the  old  man  used  to  entice  all  the  young 
and  valiant  men  he  could  procure,  where  they  were  initiated 
into  all  the  delights  of  the  earthly  paradise,  in  which  milk 
and  wine  flowed  in  abundance,  through  certain  hidden  con- 
duits. When  desirous  of  assassinating  any  prince  or  noble- 
man, who  had  offended  him,  the  old  man  would  order  the 
governor  of  his  paradise  to  entice  into  that  place  some  ac- 
quaintance or  servant  of  the  prince  or  baron  whom  he  wished 
to  slay.  Allowing  this  person  to  take  a full  taste  of  the 


172 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


delights  of  the  place,  we  was  cast  into  a deep  sleep  by  means 
of  a strong  potion,  in  which  state  he  was  removed  from  para- 
dise ; on  recovering  from  his  sleep,  and  finding  himself  ex- 
cluded from  the  pleasures  of  paradise,  he  was  brought  before 
the  old  man,  whom  he  entreated  to  restore  him  to  the  place 
from  whence  he  had  been  taken.  He  was  then  told,  that  if 
he  would  slay  such  or  such  a person,  he  should  not  only  be 
permitted  to  return  into  paradise,  but  should  remain  there 
for  ever. 

By  these  means  the  old  man  used  to  get  all  those  mur- 
dered against  whom  he  had  conceived  any  displeasure  ; on 
which  account  all  the  kings  and  princes  of  the  east  stood  in 
awe  of  him  and  paid  him  tribute. 

When  the  Tartars  had  subdued  a large  portion  of  the 
earth,  they  came  into  the  country  of  the  old  man,  and  took 
from  him  his  paradise.  Being  greatly  incensed  at  this,  he 
sent  out  many  of  his  resolute  and  desperate  dependents,  by 
whom  numbers  of  the  Tartar  nobles  were  slain.  Upon  this 
the  Tartars  besieged  the  city  of  the  old  man  of  the  moun- 
tain ; and  making  him  prisoner,  they  put  him  to  a cruel  and 
ignoble  death. 

The  famous  Prester  John  must  by  no  means  be  omitted  in  the  list 
of  these  remote  personages  who  sit  “throned”  in  old  books.  Prester, 
that  is  to  say,  Presbyter,  or  Priest  John,  has  generally  been  thought  in 
later  times  to  mean  the  Christian  King  of  Abyssinia ; but  the  most 
recent  investigators  are  inclined  to  restore  him  his  old  locality,  and  con- 
sider him  as  a Tartar  king,  probably  a Mongol  of  the  name  of  Whang, 
who  was  supposed  to  have  been  converted  to  the  Christian  faith  by 
Kestorian  missionaries.  Whang  is  almost  identical  with  the  pronuncia- 
tion of  the  Spanish  form  of  John — Juan;  which  is  very  unlike  what 
we  call  it  in  England.  The  imagination  is  to  consider  Prester  John  as 
a compound  of  priest  and  sovereign,  an  eastern  pope  or  Christian 
Grand  Lama,  sitting  clothed  in  white,  and  holding  a cross  instead  of  a 
sceptre.  He  is  a Christian  Tartar,  subjugating  the  nations  around  him, 


no  W PRESTER  JOHN  E HUNT  UP  HIS  ENEMIES.  1 73 


till  he  is  conquered  by  the  more  famous  Zinghis  Khan.  Little,  how- 
ever, is  known  of  him  beyond  his  name.  The  most  wonderful  anec- 
dote we  can  find  of  him  is  one  that  is  related  by  Friar  John  de  Carpini, 
who  was  sent  ambassador  to  the  Tartars  by  Pope  Innocent  IV.,  in  the 
middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  seems  to  anticipate  the  appear- 
ance of  artillery  in  Europe. 


HOW  PRESTER  JOHN  BURNT  UP  HIS  ENEMYrS  MEN  AND  HORSES. 

When  Zinghis  and  his  people  had  rested  some  time  after 
their  conquest  of  Cathay,  he  divided  his  army,  and  sent  one 
of  his  sons,  named  Thosut  Khan,  against  the  Comainans, 
whom  he  vanquished  in  many  battles,  and  then  returned 
into  his  own  country.  Another  of  his  sons  was  sent  with 
an  army  against  the  Indians,  wTho  subdued  the  Lesser  India. 
These  Indians  are  the  Black  Saracens,  who  are  also  named 
Ethiopians.  From  thence  the  Mongol  army  marched  to 
fight  against  the  Christians  dwelling  in  the  greater  part  of 
India  ; and  the  king  of  that  country,  known  by  the  name  of 
Prester  John,  came  forthwith  his  army  against  them.  This 
prince  caused  a number  of  hollow  copper  figures  to  be  made, 
resembling  men,  which  were  stuffed  with  combustibles  and 
set  upon  horses,  each  having  a man  behind  on  the  horse, 
with  a pair  of  bellows  to  stir  up  the  fire.  When  approach- 
ing to  give  battle,  these  mounted  images  were  first  sent  for- 
wards against  the  enemy,  and  the  men  wTho  rode  behind  set 
fire  by  some  means  to  the  combustibles,  and  blew  strongly 
with  their  bellows ; and  the  Mongol  men  and  horses  were 
burnt  with  wild-fire,  and  the  air  was  darkened  with  smoke. 
Then  the  Indians  charged  the  Mongols,  many  of  whom  were 
wounded  and  slain,  and  they  were  expelled  from  the  country 
in  great  confusion,  and  we  have  not  heard  that  they  ever 
ventured  to  return. 


174 


DELIGHTS  OF  HOOKS  OF  TllA  VEL. 


It  is  a pity  we  cannot  give  a hundred  other  romantic  particulars  out 
of  these  old  travellers,  from  the  times  of  Herodotus  downwards ; hut 
our  limits  will  not  permit  us.  AVe  must  pass,  with  a due  amount  of 
delight  or  horror,  his  semi-annual  sleepers  and  pious  cannibals ; the  isle 
of  Nearchus,  from  which  no  one  returned;  the  accounts  of  Gog  and 
Magog,  and  the  wall  of  Doolkarnien ; the  one-eyed  and  one-legged  peo- 
ple of  Mandeville,  the  latter  of  whom  make  an  umbrella  of  their  foot ; 
isles  of  giants  and  rivers  of  gems ; goblets  of  wine  that  came  to  the 
drinker  of  their  owTn  accord ; and  the  Region  of  Darkness  where  there 
never  appeared  sun,  moon,  or  star,  <fcc.  Sindbad  or  Ulysses  could  not 
beat  them;  sometimes  had  the  same  identical  experiences,  as  in  valleys 
of  diamonds  and  raw-men-eating  giants.  We  must  escape  from  old  fic- 
tions founded  on  truth,  to  modern  narratives  full  of  truth  and  more 
touching  than  fiction.  And  first  for  honest,  admirable 


LEDYAKD. 

Ledyard’s  touching  praise  of  women  and  of  the  kindness  which  he 
ever  experienced  at  their  hands,  has  been  repeated  in  many  a book  of 
selections ; but  who  shall  be  the  first  person  to  leave  it  out  ? Certainly 
not  the  compiler  of  this.  Ledyard  was  a man  who  possessed  every 
qualification  for  a traveller  of  the  highest  order,  except  a little  more 
composure  of  purpose.  He  had  health,  strength,  observation,  reflec- 
tion, integrity,  undauntedness,  enthusiasm,  but  was  somewhat  too  rest- 
less and  impatient ; and  this  single  flaw  in  his  perfections  probably 
tended  to  shorten  his  career  and  leave  him  without  a great  practical 
name.  He  was  an  American,  and  intended  for  a missionary ; but  he 
could  not  bear  to  remain  at  school.  He  became  a sailor,  a marine,  cir- 
cumnavigated the  world  with  Cook  (who  respected  and  made  use  of 
him),  and  finally  went  to  Africa  under  the  auspices  of  the  association 
for  making  discoveries,  but  died  prematurely  in  Egypt,  in  the  year 
1788.  When  he  presented  himself  at  the  Institute  as  a candidate  for 
discovery,  he  was  asked  when  he  would  be  ready  to  set  out.  He  an- 
swered, “ To-morrow  morning.” 

The  following  passage  from  a letter  which  he  wrote  before  embark- 
ing for  Africa,  wrill  show  the  natural  dignity  and  purity  of  his  cliarac 
ter. 


LED  YARD'S  FRAISE  OF  WOMEN . 


175 


“ I was  last  evening  in  company  with  Mr.  Jarvis,  of 
New- York,  whom  I accidentally  met  in  the  city,  and  in- 
vited to  my  lodgings.  When  I was  in  Paris  in  distress,  he 
behaved  very  generously  to  me,  and,  as  I do  not  want 
money  at  present,  I had  a double  satisfaction  in  our  meet- 
ing, being  equally  happy  to  see  him,  and  to  pay  him  one 
hundred  livres,  which  I never  expected  to  be  able  to  do, 
and  I suppose  he  did  not  think  I should.  If  he  goes  to 
New- York  as  soon  as  he  mentioned,  I shall  trouble  him 
with  this  letter  to  you,  and  with  some  others  to  your  ad- 
dress for  my  other  friends.  I wrote  you  last  from  this 
place,  nearly  two  years  ago,  but  I suppose  you  heard  from 
me  at  Petersburg,  by  Mr.  Franklin  of  New- York.  I 
promised  to  write  you  from  the  remote  parts  of  Siberia.  I 
promise  everything  to  those  I love ; and  so  does  fortune  to 
me  sometimes,  but  we  reciprocally  prevent  each  other  from 
fulfilling  our  engagements.  She  left  me  so  poor  in  Siberia, 
that  I could  not  write  you,  because  I could  not  frank  the 
letter.” 

Ledyard’s  honest  biographer,  though  a great  and  intelligent  admirer 
of  his  hero,  finds  fault  with  his  style  for  its  incorrectness.  The  fault, 
if  it  existed,  must  be  confined  to  passages  in  his  journal,  not  given  by 
Mr.  Sparks,  for  we  cannot  discover  it  in  those  which  he  has.  To  us  it 
appears  admirable  ; quite  correct  and  pure ; indeed  the  best  we  ever 
saw  for  sheer,  unaffected  eloquence  from  an  American  pen.  The  one 
before  us  is  a positive  masterpiece,  in  style  as  well  as  feeling. 


LEDYARD’S  PRAISE  OF  WOMEN. 

FROM  “ MEMOIRS  OF  IIIS  LIFE  AND  TRAVELS,  BY  JARED  SPARKS.” 

I HAVE  observed  among  all  nations  that  the  women 
ornament  themselves  more  than  the  men  ; that  wher- 
ever found,  they  are  the  same  civil,  kind,  obliging,  humane 


176 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


tender  beings ; that  they  are  ever  inclined  to  be  gay  and 
cheerful,  timorous  and  modest.  They  do  not  hesitate,  like 
man,  to  perform  a hospitable  or  generous  action ; not 
haughty,  nor  arrogant,  nor  supercilious,  but  full  of  courtesy, 
and  fond  of  society ; industrious,  economical,  ingenuous , 
more  liable,  in  general,  to  err  than  man,  but  in  general,  also, 
more  virtuous,  and  performing  more  good  actions  than  he. 
I never  addressed  myself,  in  the  language  of  decency  and 
friendship,  to  a woman,  whether  civilized  or  savage,  without 
receiving  a decent  and  friendly  answer.  With  man  it  has 
often  been  otherwise.  In  wandering  over  the  barren  plains 
of  inhospitable  Denmark,  through  honest  Sweden,  frozen 
Lapland,  rude  and  churlish  Finland,  unprincipled  Russia, 
and  the  wide  spread  regions  of  the  wandering  Tartar,  if 
hungry,  dry,  cold,  wet,  or  sick,  woman  has  ever  been  friendly 
to  me,  and  uniformly  so  ; and  to  add  to  this  virtue,  so 
worthy  of  the  appellation  of  benevolence,  these  actions  have 
been  performed  in  so  free  and  so  kind  a manner,  that,  if  I 
was  dry,  I drank  the  sweet  draught,  and  if  hungry,  ate  the 
coarse  morsel,  with  a double  relish. 


MUNGO  PARK. 

What  Ledyard  wanted  to  complete  his  character,  the  famous  Mungo 
Park  eminently  possessed.  He  had  not  so  large  a grasp  of  mind  as 
Ledyard,  but  he  was  in  no  need  of  it.  He  had  quite  enough  for  his 
purpose,  and  not  any  of  a doubtful  sort  to  distract  it.  But  who  needs 
to  be  told  what  a thorough  man  for  his  purpose  he  was,  what  sufferings 
he  went  through  with  the  simplest  and  most  touching  courage,  what 
successes  he  achieved,  and  what  a provoking,  mortal  mischance  befell 
him  after  all?  It  was  not  so  mortifying  a one  as  Bruce’s,  who  broke 
his  neck  down  his  own  staircase ; but  it  was  sadder  by  a great  deal,  so 
far  from  home  and  on  the  threshold  of  the  greatest  of  his  adventures. 


MUNGO  PANIC'S  BED  IN  THE  DESERT. 


177 


The  reader  of  the  following  passages  (which  are  like  fine  tunes  in 
the  history  of  men,  and  hear  endless  repetition),  will  bear  in  mind,  that 
one  of  the  objects  of  Park’s  journey  was  to  discover  the  real  course  of 
the  River  Niger,  which  had  been  a subject  of  dispute  for  ages. 

What  a passage  is  the  first  one  to  read,  when  we  are  going  to  bed 
And  what  a climax  of  suffering,  fortitude,  and  piety  is  the  last! 


MUNGO  PAEK'S  BED  IN  THE  DE8EET. 

FROM  HIS  “TRAVELS  IN  AFRICA.” 

I SADDLED  my  horse,  and  continued  my  journey.  I 
travelled  over  a level  but  more  fertile  country  than  I 
had  seen  for  some  time,  until  sunset,  when  coming  to  a path 
that  took  a southerly  direction,  I followed  it  until  midnight, 
at  which  time  I arrived  at  a small  pool  of  rain  water ; and 
the  wood  being  open,  I determined  to  rest  by  it  for  the 
night.  Having  given  my  horse  the  remainder  of  the  corn, 
I made  my  bed  as  formerly ; but  the  musquitoes  and  flies 
from  the  pool  prevented  sleep  for  some  time,  and  I was 
twice  disturbed  in  the  night  by  wild  beasts,  which  came 
very  near,  and  whose  howling  kept  \he  horse  in  continual 
terror. 

July  4th. — At  daybreak,  I pursued  my  course  through 
the  woods  as  formerly ; saw  numbers  of  antelopes,  wild 
hogs,  and  ostriches  ; but  the  soil  was  more  hilly,  and  not  so 
fertile  as  I had  found  it  the  preceding  day.  About  eleven 
o’clock,  I ascended  an  eminence,  where  I climbed  a tree  and 
discovered,  at  about  eight  miles’  distance,  an  open  part  of 
the  country,  with  several  red  spots,  which  I concluded  were 
cultivated  land  ; and,  directing  my  course  that  way,  came  to 
the  precincts  of  a watering-place  about  one  o’clock.  From 
the  appearance  of  the  place,  I judged  it  to  belong  to  the 
Foulahs,  and  was  hopeful  that  I should  meet  a better 
8* 


178 


DELIGHTS  OF  HOOKS  OF  TEA  YEL. 


reception  tliad  I had  experienced  at  Shrilla.  In  this  I was 
not  deceived  ; for  one  of  the  shepherds  invited  me  to  come 
into  his  tent,  and  partake  of  some  dates.  This  was  one  of 
those  low  Foulah  tents  in  which  is  just  room  sufficient  to  sit 
upright,  and  in  which  the  family,  the  furniture,  &c.,  seem 
huddled  together  like  so  many  articles  in  a chest.  When 
I had  crept  upon  my  hands  and  knees  into  this  humble 
habitation,  I found  that  it  contained  a woman  and  three 
children ; who,  together  with  the  shepherd  and  myself, 
completely  occupied  the  floor.  A dish  of  boiled  corn  and 
dates  was  produced,  and  the  master  of  the  family,  as  is 
customary  in  this  part  of  the  country,  first  tasted  it  himself, 
and  then  desired  me  to  follow  his  example.  Whilst  I was 
eating,  the  children  kept  their  eyes  fixed  upon  me  ; and  no 
sooner  did  the  shepherd  pronounce  thewTord  Nazarani,  than 
they  began  to  cry,  and  their  mother  crept  slowly  towards 
the  door,  out  of  which  she  sprang  like  a greyhound,  and 
was  instantly  followed  by  her  children.  So  frightened 
were  they  at  the  very  name  of  Christian,  that  no  entreaties 
could  induce  them  to  approach  the  tent.  Here  I purchased 
some  corn  for  my  horse,  in  exchange  for  some  brass  but- 
tons ; and  having  thanked  the  shepherd  for  his  hospitality, 
struck  again  into  the  woods.  At  sunset  I came  to  a road 
that  took  the  direction  for  Bambarra,  and  resolved  to  fol- 
low it  for  the  night ; but  about  eight  o’clock,  hearing  some 
people  coming  from  the  southward,  I thought  it  prudent  to 
hide  myself  among  some  thick  bushes  near  the  road.  As 
these  thickets  are  generally  full  of  wild  beasts,  I found  my 
situation  rather  unpleasant ; sitting  in  the  dark,  holding  my 
horse  by  the  nose  with  both  hands  to  prevent  him  from 
neighing,  and  equally  afraid  of  the  natives  without  and 
the  wild  beasts  within.  My  fears,  however,  were  soon  dis- 
sipated ; for  the  people,  after  looking  round  the  thicket  and 


THE  FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  NIGER. 


179 


perceiving  nothing,  went  away,  and  I hastened  to  the  more 
open  parts  of  the  wood,  where  I pursued  my  journey  E.S.E. 
until  midnight,  when  the  joyful  cry  of  frogs  induced  me  once 
more  to  deviate  a little  from  my  route,  in  order  to  quench 
my  thirst.  Having  accomplished  this  from  a large  pool  of 
rain  water,  I sought  for  an  open  spot  with  a single  tree  in 
the  midst,  under  which  I made  my  bed  for  the  night.  I 
was  disturbed  by  some  wolves  towards  morning,  which  in- 
duced me  to  set  forward  a little  before  day ; and  having 
passed  a small  village  called  Wassalita,  I came  about  ten 
o’clock  (July  5th)  to  a negro  town. 


THE  FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  NIGER. 

Hearing  that  two  negroes  were  going  to  Sego,  I was 
happy  to  have  their  company,  and  we  set  out  immediately. 
1 was  constantly  taken  for  a Moor,  and  became  the  subject 
of  much  merriment  to  the  Bambarrans,  who  seeing  me  drive 
my  horse  before  me,  laughed  heartily  at  my  appearance. 
“ He  has  been  at  Mecca,”  says  one ; “you  may  see  that  by 
his  clothes  another  asked  if  my  horse  was  sick  ; a third 
wished  to  purchase  it,  &c. ; so  that  I believe  the  very  slaves 
were  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  my  company.  Just  before  it 
was  dark,  we  took  up  our  lodgings  for  the  night  at  a small 
village,  where  I procured  some  victuals  for  myself  and  some 
corn  for  my  horse,  at  the  moderate  price  of  a button,  and 
was  told  that  I should  see  the  Niger  (which  the  negroes  call 
Joliba,  or  the  great  water),  early  the  next  day.  The  lions 
are  here  very  numerous ; the  gates  are  shut  a little  after 
sunset,  and  nobody  allowed  to  go  out.  The  thoughts  of 
seeing  the  Niger  in  the  morning,  and  the  troublesome  buzz- 
ing of  musquitoes,  prevented  me  from  shutting  my  eyes 
during  the  night,  and  I had  saddled  my  horse,  and  was  in 


180 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


readiness  before  daylight ; but  on  account  of  the  wild  beasts 
we  were  obliged  to  wait  until  the  people  were  stirring  and 
the  gates  opened.  This  happened  to  be  a market  day  at 
Sego.  and  the  roads  were  every  where  filled  with  people 
carrying  different  articles  to  sell.  We  passed  four  large 
villages,  and  at  eight  o’clock  saw  the  smoke  over  Sego. 

As  we  approached  the  town,  I was  fortunate  enough  to 
overtake  the  fugitive  Kaartans,  to  whose  kindness  I had 
been  so  much  indebted  in  my  journey  through  Bambarra. 
They  readily  agreed  to  introduce  me  to  their  king ; and 
we  rode  together  through  the  marshy  ground,  where,  as  I 
was  looking  anxiously  around  for  the  river,  one  of  them 
called  out  geo  affilli  (see  the  water) ; and  looking  forwards, 
I saw  with  infinite  pleasure  the  great  object  of  my  mission, 
the  long-sought  for  majestic  Niger,  glittering  to  the  morn- 
ing sun,  as  broad  as  the  Thames  at  Westminster,  and  flow- 
ing slowly  to  the  eastward.  I hastened  to  the  brink,  and 
having  drank  of  the  water,  lifted  up  my  fervent  thanks  in 
prayer  to  the  Great  Ruler  of  all  things,  for  having  thus  fai 
crowned  my  endeavours  with  success. 


KINDNESS  OF  A WOMAN  TO  HIM,  AND  A SONG  OVER 
HIS  DISTRESS. 

I waited  more  than  two  hours  without  having  an  oppor- 
tunity of  crossing  the  river ; during  which  time,  the  people 
who  had  crossed  carried  information  to  Mansong  the  king, 
that  a white  man  was  waiting  for  a passage,  and  was  coming 
to  see  him.  He  immediately  sent  over  one  of  his  chief 
men,  who  informed  me  that  the  king  could  not  possibly  see 
me  until  he  knew  what  had  brought  me  into  this  country  ; 
and  that  I must  not  presume  to  cross  the  river  without  the 
king’s  permission.  He  therefore  advised  me  to  lodge  at  a 


KINDNESS  OF  A WOMAN  TO  HIM. 


181 


distant  village,  to  which  he  pointed,  for  the  night  ; and 
said,  that  in  the  morning  he  would  give  me  further  instruc- 
tions how  to  conduct  myself.  This  was  very  discouraging. 
However,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  I set  off  for  the  village, 
where  I found,  to  my  great  mortification,  that  no  person 
would  admit  me  into  his  house.  I was  regarded  with  as- 
tonishment and  fear,  and  was  obliged  to  sit  all  day  without 
victuals  in  the  shade  of  a tree ; and  the  night  threatened  to 
be  very  uncomfortable,  for  the  wind  rose,  and  there  was 
great  appearance  of  a heavy  rain  ; and  the  wild  beasts  are 
so  very  numerous  in  the  neighbourhood,  that  I should  have 
been  under  the  necessity  of  climbing  up  the  tree  and  resting 
among  the  branches.  About  sunset,  however,  as  I was  pre- 
paring to  pass  the  night  in  this  manner,  and  had  turned  my 
horse  loose  that  he  might  graze  at  liberty,  a woman,  return- 
ing from  the  labours  of  the  field,  stopped  to  observe  me, 
and  perceiving  that  I was  weary  and  dejected,  inquired  into 
my  situation,  which  I briefly  explained  to  her ; whereupon, 
with  looks  of  great  compassion,  she  took  up  my  saddle  and 
bridle,  and  told  me  to  follow  her.  Having  conducted  me 
into  her  hut,  she  lighted  up  a lamp,  spread  a mat  on  the 
floor,  and  told  me  I might  remain  there  for  the  night. 
Finding  that  I was  very  hungry,  she  said  she  would  pro- 
cure me  something  to  eat.  She  accordingly  went  out  and 
returned  in  a short  time  with  a very  fine  fish,  which,  having 
caused  to  be  half  broiled  upon  some  embers,  she  gave  me 
for  supper.  The  rites  of  hospitality  being  thus  performed 
towards  a stranger  in  distress,  my  worthy  benefactress 
(pointing  to  the  mat,  and  telling  me  that  I might  sleep 
there  without  apprehension)  called  to  the  female  part  of  the 
family,  who  had  stood  gazing  on  me  all  the  while  in  fixed 
astonishment,  to  resume  their  task  of  spinning  cotton,  in 
which  they  continued  to  employ  themselves  great  part  of 


182 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL. 


the  night.  They  lightened  their  labour  by  songs,  one  of 
which  was  composed  extempore,  for  I was  myself  the  sub- 
ject of  it.  It  was  sung  by  one  of  the  young  women,  the  rest 
joining  in  a sort  of  chorus.  The  air  was  sweet  and  plain- 
tive, and  the  words,  literally  translated,  were  these  : — “ The 
winds  roared  and  the  rains  fell.  The  poor  white  man,  faint 
and  weary,  came  and  sat  under  our  tree.  He  has  no  mother 
to  bring  him  milk  ; no  wife  to  grind  his  corn.  Chorus. — 
Let  us  pity  the  white  man  ; no  mother  has  he,  &c.  &c.  &c.” 
Trifling  as  this  recital  may  appear  to  the  reader,  to  a per- 
son in  my  situation  the  circumstance  was  affecting  in  the 
highest  degree  ; I was  oppressed  by  such  unexpected  kind- 
ness, and  sleep  fled  from  my  eyes.  In  the  morning  I pre- 
sented my  landlady  with  two  of  the  four  brass  buttons 
which  remained  on  my  waistcoat,  the  only  recompense  I 
could  make  her. 


HE  PASSES  A LION. 

July  28th. — I departed  from  Nyara,  and  reached  Nya- 
mee  about  noon.  This  town  is  inhabited  chiefly  by  Foulahs, 
from  the  kingdom  of  Masina.  The  dooty  (the  head  man 
of  the  place),  I know  not  why,  would  not  receive  me,  but 
civilly  sent  his  son  on  horseback  to  conduct  me  to  Modiboo  ; 
which,  he  assured  me,  was  at  no  great  distance. 

We  rode  nearly  in  a direct  line  through  the  woods,  but 
in  general  went  forwards  with  great  circumspection.  I 
observed  that  my  guide  frequently  stopped  and  looked 
under  the  bushes.  On  inquiring  the  reason  of  this  caution, 
he  told  me  that  lions  were  very  numerous  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  and  frequently  attacked — travelling  through 
the  woods.  While  he  was  speaking  my  horse  started  ; look- 
ing round,  I observed  a large  animal,  of  the  cameleopard 


HE  HASSES  A LION. 


183 


kind,  standing  at  a little  distance.  The  neck  and  fore-legs 
were  very  long  ; the  head  was  furnished  with  two  short 
black  horns,  turning  backwards ; the  tail,  which  reached 
down  to  the  ham  joint,  had  a tuft  of  hair  at  the  end.  The 
animal  was  of  a mouse  colour,  and  it  trotted  away  from  us 
in  a very  sluggish  manner,  moving  its  head  from  side  to 
side  to  see  if  we  were  pursuing  it.  Shortly  after  this,  as 
we  were  crossing  a large  open  plain,  where  there  were  a few 
scattered  bushes,  my  guide,  who  was  a little  way  before  me, 
wheeled  his  horse  round  in  a moment,  calling  out  something 
in  the  Foulah  language  which  I did  not  understand.  I in- 
quired in  Mandingo  what  he  meant.  Warra  billi  billi , a 
very  large  lion,  said  he  ; and  made  signs  for  me  to  ride 
away.  But  my  horse  was  too  much  fatigued  ; so  we  rode 
slowly  past  the  bush  from  which  the  animal  had  given  us 
the  alarm.  Not  seeing  anything  myself,  however,  I thought 
my  guide  had  been  mistaken,  when  the  Foulah  suddenly 
put  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  exclaiming,  Soubah  an  alluhi 
(God  preserve  us  !)  and  to  my  great  surprise  I then  per- 
ceived a large  red  lion,  at  a short  distance  from  the  bush, 
with  his  head  couched  between  his  fore  paws.  I expected 
he  would  instantly  spring  upon  me.  and  instinctively  pulled 
my  feet  from  the  stirrups  to  throw  myself  on  the  ground, 
that  my  horse  might  become  the  victim  rather  than  myself. 
But  it  is  probable  that  the  lion  was  not  hungry,  for  he 
quietly  suffered  us  to  pass,  though  we  were  fairly  within  his 
reach.  My  eyes  were  so  rivetted  upon  this  sovereign  of  the 
beasts,  that  I found  it  impossible  to  remove  them  until  we 
were  at  a considerable  distance.  We  now  took  a circuitous 
route  through  some  swampy  ground,  to  avoid  any  more  of 
these  disagreeable  rencounters. 


184 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TEA  VEL . 


NARROW  ESCAPE  FROM  ANOTHER  LION. 

In  the  evening  I arrived  at  a small  village  called  Song, 
the  surly  inhabitants  of  which  would  not  receive  me,  nor  so 
much  as  permit  me  to  enter  the  gate  ; but  as  lions  were 
very  numerous  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  I had  frequently, 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  seen  the  impression  of  their  feet 
on  the  road,  I resolved  to  stay  in  the  vicinity  of  the  village. 
Having  collected  some  grass  for  my  horse,  I accordingly 
lay  down  under  a tree  by  the  gate.  About  ten  o’clock  I 
heard  the  hollow  roar  of  a lion  at  no  great  distance,  and 
attempted  to  open  the  gate  ; but  the  people  from  within 
told  me,  that  no  person  must  attempt  to  enter  the  gate 
without  the  dooty’s  permission.  I begged  them  to  inform 
the  dooty  that  a lion  was  approaching  the  village,  and  I 
hoped  he  would  allow  me  to  come  within  the  gate.  I 
waited  for  an  answer  to  this  message  with  great  anxiety  ; 
for  the  lion  kept  prowling  round  the  village,  and  once  ad- 
vanced so  very  near  me,  that  I heard  him  rustling  among 
the  grass,  and  climbed  the  tree  for  safety.  About  mid- 
night the  dooty  with  some  of  his  people  opened  the  gate 
and  desired  me  to  come  in.  They  were  convinced,  they 
said,  that  I was  not  a Moor  ; for  no  Moor  ever  waited  any 
time  at  the  gate  of  a village  without  cursing  the  in- 
habitants. 


THE  MOSS  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Aug.  25th. — I departed  from  Kooma,  accompanied  by 
two  shepherds,  who  were  going  towards  Sibidooloo.  The 
road  was  very  steep  and  rocky,  and  as  my  horse  had  hurt 
his  feet  much  in  coming  from  Bammakoo,  he  travelled 


THE  MOSS  IN  THE  DESERT. 


185 


slowly  and  with  great  difficulty ; for  in  many  places  the 
ascent  was  so  sharp,  and  the  declivities  so  great,  that  if  he 
had  made  one  false  step,  he  must  inevitably  have  been 
dashed  to  pieces.  The  shepherds  being  anxious  to  proceed, 
gave  themselves  little  trouble  about  me  or  my  horse,  and 
kept  walking  on  at  a considerable  distance.  It  was  about 
eleven  o’clock,  as  I stopped  to  drink  a little  water  at  a 
rivulet  (my  companions  being  near  a quarter  of  a mile  be- 
fore me),  that  I heard  some  people  calling  to  each  other, 
and  presently  a loud  screaming  as  from  a person  in  great 
distress.  I immediately  conjectured  that  a lion  had  taken 
one  of  the  shepherds,  and  mounted  my  horse  to  have  a better 
view  of  what  had  happened.  The  noise,  however,  ceased  ; 
and  I rode  slowly  towards  the  place  from  whence  I thought 
it  proceeded,  calling  out,  but  without  receiving  any  answer. 
In  a little  time,  however,  I perceived  one  of  the  shepherds 
lying  among  the  long  grass  near  ihe  road ; and  though  I 
could  see  no  blood  upon  him,  concluded  he  was  dead.  But 
when  I came  close  to  him,  he  whispered  to  me  to  stop, 
telling  me  that  a party  of  armed  men  had  seized  upon  his 
companion,  and  shot  two  arrows  at  himself  as  he  was  making 
his  escape.  I stopped  to  consider  what  course  to  take,  and 
looking  round,  saw  at  a little  distance  a man  sitting  upon 
the  stump  of  a tree  ; I distinguished  also  the  heads  of  six 
or  seven  more,  sitting  amongst  the  grass  with  muskets  in 
their  hands.  I had  now  no  hopes  of  escaping,  and  there- 
fore determined  to  ride  forward  amongst  them.  As  I ap- 
proached them,  I was  in  hopes  they  were  elephant-hunters, 
and,  by  way  of  opening  the  conversation,  inquired  if  they 
had  shot  anything  ; but,  without  returning  an  answer,  one 
of  them  ordered  me  to  dismount  ; and  then,  as  if  recol- 
lecting himself,  waved  with  his  hand  for  me  to  proceed.  I 
accordingly  rode  past,  and  had  with  some  difficulty  crossed 


186 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TRAVEL. 


a deep  rivulet,  when  I heard  somebody  holloa  ; and  looking 
back,  saw  those  I took  for  elephant-hunters  now  running 
after  me,  and  calling  out  to  me  to  turn  back.  I stopped 
until  they  were  all  come  up,  when  they  informed  me  that 
the  king  of  the  Foulahs  had  sent  them  on  purpose  to  bring 
me,  my  horse,  and  everything  that  belonged  to  me,  to 
Fooladoo,  and  that  therefore  I must  turn  back,  and  go 
along  with  them.  Without  hesitating  a moment,  I turned 
round  and  followed  them,  and  we  travelled  together  near 
a quarter  of  a mile  without  exchanging  a word.  When 
coming  to  a dark  place  of  the  wood,  one  of  them  said,  in 
the  Mandingo  language,  u This  place  will  do,”  and  imme- 
diately snatched  my  hat  from  my  head.  Though  I was  by 
no  means  free  of  apprehension,  yet  I resolved  to  show  as 
few  signs  of  fear  as  possible,  and  therefore  told  them,  unless 
my  hat  was  returned  to  me,  I should  go  no  farther.  But 
before  I had  time  to  receive  an  answer,  another  drew  his 
knife,  and  seizing  upon  a metal  button  which  remained  upon 
my  waistcoat,  cut  it  off,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Their  in- 
tentions were  now  obvious,  and  I thought  that  the  easier 
they  were  permitted  to  rob  me  of  everything,  the  less  I had 
to  fear.  I therefore  allowed  them  to  search  my  pockets 
without  resistance,  and  examine  every  part  of  my  apparel, 
which  they  did  with  scrupulous  exactness.  But  observing 
that  I had  one  waistcoat  under  another,  they  insisted  that  I 
should  cast  them  both  off ; and  at  last,  to  make  sure  work, 
stripped  me  quite  naked.  Even  my  half-boots  (though  the 
sole  of  one  of  them  was  tied  to  my  foot  with  a broken  bridle- 
rein)  were  narrowly  inspected.  Whilst  they  were  examining 
the  plunder,  I begged  them  with  great  earnestness  to  return 
my  pocket  compass  ; but  when  I pointed  it  out  to  them,  as  it 
was  lying  on  the  ground,  one  of  the  banditti,  thinking  I was 
about  to  take  it  up,  cocked  his  musket,  and  swore  that  he 


THE  MOSS  IN  THE  DESERT. 


187 


would  lay  me  dead  on  the  spot  if  I presumed  to  lay  my 
hand  on  it.  After  this  some  of  them  went  away  with  my 
horse,  and  the  remainder  stood  considering  whether  they 
should  leave  me  quite  naked,  or  allow  me  something  to 
shelter  me  from  the  sun.  Humanity  at  last  prevailed  ; 
they  returned  me  the  worst  of  the  two  shirts  and  a pair  of 
trousers  ; and,  as  they  went  away,  one  of  them  threw  back 
my  hat,  in  the  crown  of  which  I kept  my  memorandums  • 
and  this  was  probably  the  reason  they  did  not  wish  to  keep 
it.  After  they  were  gone,  I sat  for  some  time  looking  around 
me  with  amazement  and  terror  ; whichever  way  I turned, 
nothing  appeared  but  danger  and  difficulty.  I saw  myself 
in  the  midst  of  a vast  wilderness  in  the  depth  of  the  rainy 
season,  naked  and  alone,  surrounded  by  savage  animals,  and 
men  still  more  savage.  I was  five  hundred  miles  from  the 
nearest  European  settlement.  All  these  circumstances 
crowded  at  once  on  my  recollection  j and  I confess,  that  my 
spirits  began  to  fail  me.  I considered  my  fate  as  certain, 
and  that  I had  no  alternative  but  to  lie  down  and  perish. 
The  influence  of  religion,  however,  aided  and  supported 
me.  I reflected,  that  no  human  prudence  or  foresight  could 
possibly  have  averted  my  present  sufferings.  I was  indeed 
a stranger  in  a strange  land,  yet  I was  still  under  the  pro- 
tecting eye  of  that  Providence  who  has  condescended  to 
call  himself  the  stranger’s  friend.  At  this  moment,  painful 
as  my  reflections  were,  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  a small 
moss  in  fructification  irresistibly  caught  my  eye.  I mention 
this,  to  show  from  what  trifling  circumstances  the  mind  will 
sometimes  derive  consolation  ; for  though  the  whole  plant 
was  not  larger  than  the  tip  of  one  of  my  fingers,  I could  not 
contemplate  the  delicate  conformation  of  its  roots,  leaves, 
and  capsule  without  admiration.  Can  that  Being  (thought 
I)  who  planted,  watered,  and  brought  to  perfection,  in  this* 


188 


DELIGHTS  OF  BOOKS  OF  TRAVEL. 


obscure  part  of  the  world,  a thing  which  appears  of  so  small 
importance,  look  with  unconcern  upon  the  situation  and 
sufferings  of  creatures  formed  after  his  own  image  ? — surely 
not ! r ejections  like  these  would  not  allow  me  to  despair; 
I started  up,  and  disregarding  both  hunger  and  fatigue, 
travelled  forwards,  assured  that  relief  was  at  hand ; and  I 
was  not  disappointed.  In  a short  time  I came  to  a small 
village,  at  the  entrance  of  which  I overtook  the  two  shep- 
herds who  had  come  with  me  from  Kooma.  They  were 
much  surprised  to  see  me,  for  they  said  they  never  doubted 
that  the  Foulahs,  when  they  had  robbed,  had  murdered  me. 
Departing  from  this  village,  we  travelled  over  several  rocky 
ridges,  and  at  sunset  arrived  at  Sibidooloo,  the  frontier 
town  of  the  kingdom  of  Manding. 


51.  IJjijnnrErk,  a #ra  ^ngttgE,  nnir  an  ‘taatotE  kg  !|je 

mg. 


Voyages,  for  the  most  part,  are  not  so  entertaining  as  travels.  They 
are  less  diversified  in  subject,  and  less  conversant  with  flesh  and  blood. 
When  they  are  otherwise,  no  reading  is  more  attractive.  Voyages 
among  icebergs,  and  to  newly  discovered  lands,  combine  the  charms  of 
romance  with  the  greatest  personal  interest ; and  few  things  affect  us 
more  strongly  than  a well-told  and  disastrous  shipwreck.  Such  catas- 
trophes, however,  are  in  general  too  painful  to  warrant  isolated  extract 
into  a book  of  entertainment.  The  compiler  seems  almost  cruel  in 
making  it.  It  furnishes  too  great  a contrast  to  the  reader’s  comfort* 
without  possessing  the  excuse  of  utility. 

The  almost  universal  defect  of  Voyages  is,  that  they  take  little  no 
tice  of  the  element  on  which  they  are  made.  Most  people  who  journey 
by  sea,  have  no  wish  but  to  get  over  it  as  fast  as  possible.  The  “ won- 
ders of  the  deep  ” are,  for  them,  as  if  they  did  not  exist ; and  even 
those  who  are  more  curious,  are  content  to  see  little.  Geology  has  not 
yet  been  accompanied  by  its  proper  amount  of  Hydrology . The  ocean, 
physically  and  intellectually  speaking,  is  comparatively  an  unploughed 
field,  even  by  the  English ; yet  what  it  may  produce,  let  the  reader 
judge  who  is  acquainted  with  the  narratives  of  the  Cooks,  the  Scoresbys, 
and  the  Humboldts. 

That  the  perils  of  shipwreck,  however,  may  not  be  wanting  to  the 
pleasures  of  this  our  Book  for  a Corner,  and  that  our  inland  habits  may  be 
refreshed  by  their  due  contrast  with  a sense  of  being  “out  at  sea,”  we 
have  selected,  in  the  first  instance,  the  following  brief  but  comprehen- 
sive account  of  the  loss  of  a Spanish  vessel  from  the  pages  of  Mr.  Red- 
ding’s Shipivrecks  and  Disasters  at  Sea;  and  in  the  second,  with  due 


190 


SHIP  WRECK  OF  A SPANISH  VESSEL. 


omissions,  an  abstract  of  Cook’s  first  voyage  to  Otaheite,  because  it 
keeps  the  reader  longer  and  more  pleasantly  on  the  water  than  most 
such  narratives,  besides  furnishing  a singular  peril  by  the  way,  and  call- 
ing to  mind  some  of  the  most  interesting  reading  of  one’s  childhood. 

The  Spanish  vessel  was  bound  from  Panama  to  Caldera,  a port  in 
New  Spain;  and  both  before  and  after  the  following  mishap,  the  crew 
and  passengers  encountered  much  suffering ; but  the  present  is  the  most 
interesting  point  of  the  narrative.  It  is  remarkable  for  answering  more 
completely  than  usual  to  what  a landsman’s  imagination  conceives  of 
such  horrors ; that  is  to  say,  the  suddenness  of  the  danger,  the  noise  of 
the  waters,  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  cutting  away  of  masts,  and 
the  frightened  awakening  of  guilty  consciences.  The  loud,  confessing 
voices,  heard  even  above  the  loudness  of  the  thunder,  is  particularly 
dreadful. 


SHIPWRECK  OF  A SPANISH  VESSEL. 


BOUT  seven,  one  evening,  the  crew  of  a Spanish  vessel 


•B.  of  burden,  with  various  goods,  bound  for  Caldera,  be- 
held the  desired  port.  All  was  joy  in  the  ship.  The  cap- 
tain presented  the  sailors  with  a cask  of  wine,  and  a Genoese 
merchant  on  board  gave  them  another.  The  men  were  in 
too  good  a temper  to  postpone  tasting  the  wine  until  the 
next  day. 

They  attacked  the  cask  at  once,  headed  by  the  pilot,  and 
it  was  soon  emptied,  but  not  without  materially  affecting 
their  heads. 

The  Genoese  merchant,  fearing  the  ill  effects  that  must 
arise  from  such  a state  of  things  when  so  near  the  shore, 
posted  himself,  in  his  excess  of  caution,  between  the  man  at 
the  helm  and  the  pilot,  from  having  remarked  that  the  pilot, 
sitting  on  his  seat  quite  drunk,  worked  the  ship  from  recol- 
lection alone,  as  he  was  close  to  a port  perfectly  well  known 
to  him.  The  merchant  placed  himself  in  the  situation  al- 
ready mentioned,  to  repeat  with  more  precision  the  words 


SHIP  WRECK  OF  A SPANISH  VESSEL. 


191 


of  the  pilot  to  the  timoneer  (man  at  the  helm),  and  this  act 
caused  the  loss  of  the  ship.  The  pilot  gave  the  word  **  north- 
west, to  the  north-west,’1  Al  norueste  the  merchant,  who 
stammered  and  spoke  bad  Spanish,  repeated  the  words  “ Al 
nornorueste  ,”  to  the  north-wor^-west,  which  is  a different 
point  of  the  compass.  The  timoneer,  thinking  it  was  his 
master’s  orders,  did  as  he  was  told — kept  away  from  the 
port  and  yet  approached  the  coast. 

In  the  meanwhile  night  was  approaching  fast.  The  pas- 
sengers and  the  captain  were  in  their  beds  wrapped  in  slum- 
ber. About  two  in  the  morning,  the  captain  was  surprised  by 
hearing  the  waves  breaking  upon  the  rocks.  He  cried  out 
to  the  pilot,  “ What  is  this,  pilot  ? are  we  entering  the  port 
already?”  The  pilot,  on  the  question  being  reiterated, 
roused  from  his  lethargy,  and  saw  with  astonishment  and 
terror  that  the  vessel  was  steering  right  upon  a rock  which 
could  scarcely  be  seen  for  the  obscurity.  Above  all  a high 
mountain  towered  in  shadow,  covered  apparently  with  trees. 
The  pilot  called  out  to  come  about,  but  there  was  now  no 
time,  the  vessel  was  close  on  the  shore,  and  struck  with  such 
force  that  one  of  her  sides  opened. 

A huge  wave  recoiled  from  the  rock  against  which  it  had 
dashed,  swept  over  the  vessel,  and  filled  her  with  water. 

Then  there  was  nothing  heard  throughout  the  ship  but 
clamorous  cries  and  shrieks  of  horror.  Lamentations  suc- 
ceeded to  sounds  of  mirth  and  revelry,  which  had  been  heard 
so  short  a time  before.  Some  awaked  suddenly  from  their 
sleep,  and  cried  in  astonishment  as  they  heard  the  others 
do  who  were  aware  of  the  danger,  though  they  knew  not  yet 
any  reason  wherefore. 

The  noise  of  the  vast  waves  of  the  Pacific  thundering 
around  and  over  the  ship,  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  dash- 
ing of  the  sea  on  the  rocks,  increased  the  terror  of  the  scene. 


J92 


SHIP  WRECK  OF  A SPANISH  VESSEL. 

What  was  still  more  extraordinary,  the  vessel  was  lost  none 
could  tell  how  or  where.  This  reverse  of  fortune  was  terri- 
ble to  them.  They  had  imagined  themselves  close  to  the 
entrance  of  the  port.  In  the  terror  which  came  upon  the 
crew,  some  fell  on  their  knees  in  prayer,  making  vows  to 
heaven  for  their  safety ; others  with  uplifted  hands  de- 
manded God’s  mercy  ; while  many  in  a loud  voice,  heard 
even  amid  the  louder  thundering  of  the  waves  around,  re- 
vealed their  most  secret  sins. 

The  captain  preserved  his  presence  of  mind.  Seeing 
that  all  must  perish  if  something  were  not  attempted  speed- 
ily for  the  safety  of  those  on  board,  he  encouraged  the  sailors 
to  cut  away  the  masts,  and  to  provide  themselves  with  planks, 
or  any  loose  timber  upon  which  there  was  a chance  of  gain- 
ing the  shore.  Everything  above  deck  contributing  to  the 
breaking  up  of  the  ship  by  its  weight,  was  cut  away  or  flung 
overboard. 

In  this  state  morning  broke  upon  them.  The  captain, 
when  the  vessel  had  opened  her  planks  and  was  settling  in 
the  water,  seeing  that  the  sailors  would  endeavour  to  gain 
the  shore  upon  anything  they  could  seize  that  would  swim, 
advised  several  of  them  to  fasten  themselves  to  the  ends  of 
a long  rope,  one  at  each  end,  so  that  whoever  got  on  shore 
first  might  drawr  after  him  a second,  who  might  not  be  so 
fortunate  in  his  attempt  at  reaching  it.  In  this  manner  the 
captain  got  the  pilot  safe  to  land,  although  he  did.  not  de- 
serve it.  Nearly  all  the  crew  escaped.  Five  or  six  only, 
who  were  dashed  by  the  waves  with  great  force  against  the 
ship  or  the  rocks  head  foremost,  were  lost. 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


193 


A SEA  VOYAGE,  AND  AN  ADVENTUKE  BY  THE  WAY. 


[The  narrative  of  Cook’s  voyages  was  drawn  up  by  Hawkesworth, 
author  of  The  Adventurer.  The  Mr.  Banks  mentioned  in  it  was  after- 
wards the  well  known  Sir  Joseph,  President  of  the  Royal  Society;  and 
Dr.  Solander  became  a distinguished  botanist.] 

HAYING-  received  my  commission,  which  was  dated  the 
25th  of  May,  1768, 1 went  on  board  on  the  27th,  hoisted 
the  pennant,  and  took  charge  of  the  ship,  which  then  lay  in 
the  basin  in  Deptford  yard.  She  was  fitted  for  sea  with  all 
expedition;  and  stores  and  provisions  being  taken  on  board, 
sailed  down  the  river  on  the  30th  of  July,  and  on  the  13th 
of  August  anchored  in  Plymouth  Sound. 

On  Friday  the  26th  of  August,  the  wind  becoming  fair, 
we  got  under  sail,  and  put  to  sea.  On  the  31st  we  saw 
several  of  the  birds  which  the  sailors  call  Mother  Carey’s 
chickens,  and  which  they  suppose  to  be  the  forerunners  of 
a storm  ; and  on  the  next  day  we  had  a very  hard  gale, 
which  brought  us  under  our  courses,  washed  overboard  a 
small  boat  belonging  to  the  boatswain,  and  drowned  three 
or  four  dozen  of  our  poultry,  which  we  regretted  still  more. 

On  Friday  the  2d  of  September  we  saw  land  between 
Cape  Finisterre  and  Cape  Ortegal,  on  the  coast  of  Gallicia, 
in  Spain ; and  on  the  5th,  by  an  observation  of  the  sun  and 
moon,  we  found  the  latitude  of  Cape  Finisterre  to  be  42° 
53y  north,  and  its  longitude  8°  467  west,  our  first  meridian 
being  always  supposed  to  pass  through  Greenwich ; varia- 
tion of  the  needle  21°  4 7 west. 

During  this  course,  Mr.  Banks  and  Dr.  Solander  had  an 
opportunity  of  observing  many  marine  animals,  of  which  no 
naturalist  has  hitherto  taken  notice  ; particularly  a new 
species  of  the  oniscus , which  was  found  adhering  to  the 


194 


A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


medusa  pelagica  ; and  an  animal  of  an  angular  figure,  about 
three  inches  long,  and  one  thick,  with  a hollow  passing  quite 
through  it,  and  a brown  spot  on  one  end,  which  they  con- 
jectured might  be  its  stomach  ; four  of  these  adhered  to- 
gether by  their  sides  when  they  were  taken,  so  that  at  first 
they  were  thought  to  be  one  animal ; but  upon  being  put 
into  a glass  of  water  they  soon  separated,  and  swam  about 
very  briskly.  These  animals  are  of  a new  genus,  to  which 
Mr.  Banks  and  Dr.  Solander  gave  the  name  of  Dagysa , from 
the  likeness  of  one  species  of  them  to  a gem.  Several  speci- 
mens of  them  were  taken  adhering  together  sometimes  to 
the  length  of  a yard  or  more,  and  shining  in  the  water  with 
very  beautiful  colours.  Another  animal  of  a new  genus  they 
also  discovered,  which  shone  in  the  water  with  colours  still 
more  beautiful  and  vivid,  and  which  indeed  exceeded  in 
variety  and  brightness  anything  that  we  had  ever  seen. 
The  colouring  and  splendour  of  these  animals  were  equal  to 
those  of  an  opal,  and  from  their  resemblance  to  that  gem, 
the  genus  was  called  Cardnium  Opalinum . One  of  them 
lived  several  hours  in  a glass  of  salt  water,  swimming  about 
with  great  agility,  and  at  every  motion  displaying  a change 
of  colours  almost  infinitely  various.  We  caught  also  among 
the  rigging  of  the  ship,  when  we  were  at  the  distance  of 
about  ten  leagues  from  Cape  Finisterre,  several  birds  which 
have  not  been  described  by  Linnaeus ; they  were  supposed 
to  have  come  from  Spain,  and  our  gentlemen  called  the 
species  Motacilla  velijicans  (sail-making),  as  they  said  none 
but  sailors  would  venture  themselves  on  board  a ship  that 
was  going  round  the  world.  One  of  them  was  so  exhausted 
that  it  died  in  Mr.  Banks’s  hand  almost  as  soon  as  it  was 
brought  to  him. 

It  was  thought  extraordinary  that  no  naturalist  had 
hitherto  taken  notice  of  the  Dagysa,  as  the  sea  abounds 


A SEA  VOYAGE,  AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


195 


with  them  not  twenty  leagues  from  the  coast  of  Spain  ; but, 
unfortunately  for  the  cause  of  science,  there  are  but  very 
few  of  those  who  traverse  the  sea,  that  are  either  desposed 
or  qualified  to  remark  the  curiosities  of  which  nature  has 
made  it  the  repository. 

On  the  12th  we  discovered  the  islands  of  Porto  Sanko 
and  Madeira,  and  on  the  next  day  anchored  in  Funchiale 
road,  and  moored  with  the  stream-anchor  : but  in  the  night 
the  bend  of  the  hawser  of  the  stream-anchor  slipped,  owing 
to  the  negligence  of  the  person  who  had  been  employed  to 
make  it  fast.  In  the  morning  the  anchor  was  heaved 
up  into  the  boat,  and  carried  out  to  the  southward  ; but  in 
heaving  it  again,  Mr.  Weir,  the  master’s  mate,  was  carried 
overboard  by  the  buoy-rope,  and  went  to  the  bottom  with 
the  anchor  ; the  people  in  the  ship  saw  the  accident,  and 
got  the  anchor  up  with  all  possible  expedition,  it  was,  how- 
ever, too  late,  the  body  came  up  entangled  in  the  buoy-rope, 
but  it  was  dead. 

When  the  island  of  Madeira  is  first  approached  from 
the  sea,  it  has  a very  beautiful  appearance  ; the  sides  of  the 
hills  being  entirely  covered  with  vines  almost  as  high  as 
the  eye  can  distinguish ; and  the  vines  are  green  when 
every  kind  of  herbage,  except  where  they  shade  the  ground, 
and  here  and  there,  by  the  sides  of  a rill,  is  entirely  burnt 
up,  which  was  the  case  at  this  time. 

The  refreshments  to  be  had  here,  are  water,  wine,  fruit 
of  several  sorts,  onions  in  plenty,  and  some  sweetmeats ; 
fresh  meat  and  poultry  are  not  to  be  had  wdthout  leave  from 
the  governor,  and  the  payment  of  a very  high  price. 

We  took  in  270  lbs.  of  fresh  beef,  and  a live  bullock, 
charged  at  613  lbs.,  3,032  gallons  of  water,  and  ten  tons  of 
wine  ; and  in  the  night,  between  Sunday  the  18th  and  Mon- 
9 


196 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


day  the  19th  September,  we  set  sail  in  prosecution  of  our 
voyage. 

On  Friday,  the  23rd  of  September,  we  saw  the  Peak  of 
Teneriffe  bearing  W.  by  S.  \ S.  Its  appearance  at  sunset 
was  very  striking;  when  the  sun  was  below  the  horizon,  and 
the  rest  of  the  island  appeared  of  a deep  black,  the  moun- 
tain still  reflected  his  rays,  and  glowed  with  a warmth  of 
colour  which  no  painting  can  express. 

On  the  next  day,  Saturday  the  24th,  we  came  into  the 
north-east  trade-wind,  and  on  Friday,  the  30th,  saw  Bona 
Vista,  one  of  the  Cape  de  Verd  Islands:  we  ranged  the 
east  side  if  it,  at  the  distance  of  three  or  four  miles  from 
the  shore,  till  we  were  obliged  to  haul  off  to  avoid  a 
ledge  of  rocks  which  stretch  out  S.  W.  by  W.  from  the 
body,  or  S.  E.  point  of  the  island,  to  the  extent  of  a league 
and  a half. 

During  our  course  from  Teneriffe  to  Bona  Vista,  we 
saw  great  numbers  of  flying  fish,  which  from  the  cabin-win- 
dows appear  beautiful  beyond  imagination,  their  sides 
having  the  colour  and  brightness  of  burnished  silver ; when 
they  are  seen  from  the  deck,  they  do  not  appear  to  so  much 
advantage,  because  their  backs  are  of  a dark  colour.  We 
also  took  a shark,  which  proved  to  be  the  Squalus  C archa- 
rias of  Linnaeus. 

Having  lost  the  trade-wind  on  the  3rd,  in  latitude  12° 
14',  and  longitude  22°  10',  the  wind  became  somewhat  vari- 
able, and  we  had  light  airs  and  calms  by  turns. 

On  the  7th,  Mr.  Banks  went  out  in  the  boat,  and  took 
what  the  seamen  call  a Portuguese  man-of-war  ; it  is  the 
Holvthuria  Physalis  of  Linnaeus,  a'id  a species  of  the  Mol- 
lusca.  It  consisted  of  a small  bladder  about  seven  inches 
long,  and  very  much  resembling  the  air-bladder  of  fishes, 
from  the  bottom  of  which  descended  a number  of  strings  of 


A SEA  VOYAGE,  AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


197 


a bright  blue  and  red,  some  of  them  three  or  four  feet  in 
length,  which,  upon  being  touched,  sting  like  a nettle,  but 
with  much  more  force.  On  the  top  of  the  bladder  is  a 
membrane  which  is  used  as  a sail,  and  turned  so  as  to 
receive  the  wind  which  way  soever  it  blows.  This  mem- 
brane is  marked  in  fine  pink-coloured  veins,  and  the 
animal  is  in  every  respect  an  object  exquisitely  curious  and 
beautiful. 

We  also  took  several  of  the  shell-fishes,  or  testaceous 
animals,  which  are  always  found  floating  upon  the  water, 
particularly  the  Helix  Ianthina  and  Violacea ; they  are 
about  the  size  of  a snail,  and  are  supported  upon  the  surface 
of  the  water  by  a small  cluster  of  bubbles,  which  are  filled 
with  air,  and  consist  of  a tenacious  slimy  substance  that 
will  not  easily  part  with  its  contents ; the  animal  is  ovipa- 
rous, and  these  bubbles  serve  also  as  a nidus  for  its  eggs. 
It  is  probable  that  it  never  goes  down  to  the  bottom,  nor 
willingly  approaches  any  shore  ; for  the  shell  is  exceedingly 
brittle,  and  that  of  few  fresh-water  snails  is  so  thin,  Every 
shell  contains  about  a tea-spoonful  of  liquor,  which  it  easily 
discharges  upon  being  touched,  and  which  is  of  the  most 
beautiful  red-purple  that  can  be  conceived.  It  dyes  linen 
cloth,  and  it  may  perhaps  be  worth  inquiry  (as  the  shell  is 
certainly  found  in  the  Mediterranean),  whether  it  be  not 
the  Purpura  of  the  ancients.* 

* It  is  quite  impossible  to  discuss  this  subject  here.  But  it  may  be 
worth  while  to  refer  the  learned  reader  for  some  curious  information 
about  it,  to  the  illustrious  Bocliart’s  work  entitled  Hierozoicon , part  ii. 
book  v.,  cli.  ii.  There  are  several  sorts  of  sea-sliells,  that  yield  the  pur- 
ple-dye so  much  esteemed  among  the  ancients.  Pliny,  who  has  written 
on  the  subject,  divides  them  into  two  classes,  the  luccinum  and  purpura, 
of  which  the  latter  was  most  in  request.  According  to  him,  the  best  kinds 
were  found  in  the  vicinity  of  Tyre.  That  city  was  famous  for  the  manu- 
facture of  purple.  To  be  Tyi'io  conspectus  in  ostro,  seemed,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  Mantuan  poet,  essential  to  his  due  appearance  in  honour  of 


198 


A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


In  the  evening  of  the  29th  of  October,  we  observed  that 
luminous  appearance  of  the  sea,  which  has  been  so  often 
mentioned  by  navigators,  and  of  which  such  various  causes 
have  been  assigned ; some  supposing  it  to  be  occasioned  by 
fish,  which  agitated  the  water  by  darting  on  their  prey,  some 
by  the  putrefaction  of  fish  and  other  marine  animals,  some 
by  electricity,  and  others  referring  it  to  a great  variety  of 
different  causes.  It  appeared  to  emit  flashes  of  light  ex- 
actly resembling  those  of  lightning,  only  not  so  considerable; 
but  they  were  so  frequent  that  sometimes  eight  or  ten  were 
visible  almost  at  the  same  moment.  We  were  of  opinion 
that  they  proceeded  from  some  luminous  animal,  and  upon 
throwing  out  the  casting-net  our  opinion  was  confirmed.  It 
brought  up  a species  of  the  Medusa , which  when  it  came 
on  board  had  the  appearance  of  metal  violently  heated,  and 
emitted  a white  light.  With  these  animals  were  taken 
some  very  small  crabs,  of  three  different  species,  each  of 
which  gave  as  much  light  as  a glow-worm,  though  the  crea- 
ture was  not  so  large  by  nine-tenths.  Upon  examination 
of  these  animals,  Mr.  Banks  had  the  satisfaction  to  find  that 
they  were  all  entirely  new.* 

Augustus,  Geor.  3-17.  But  several  other  places  in  the  Mediterranean 
afforded  this  precious  article.  Thus  Horace  speaks  of  Spartan  purple, 

u Nee  Laconicas  mihi 
Trahunt  honestae  'purpuras  clientse.” 

Od.  lib.  ii.  18. 

The  English  reader  will  be  much  pleased  with  several  interesting  re- 
marks as  to  the  purple  and  other  colours  known  to  the  ancients,  given  in 
President  Goguet’s  valuable  work  on  the  origin  of  laws,  arts,  &c.  &c.,  of 
which  a translation  by  Dr.  Henry  was  published  at  Edinburgh  in  1761 
EawJcsworth. 

* The  reader  is  referred  to  the  account  of  Captain  Krusenstern’s  cir- 
cumnavigation, for  a very  satisfactory  relation  of  an  experiment  on  this 
subject,  which  clearly  proves  the  truth  of  the  opinion  above  stated,  as  to 
the  cause  of  the  shining  appearance  so  often  noticed  at  sea.  It  is  too  long 
for  quotation  in  this  place. — Kerr . 


A SEA  VOYAGE,  AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


199 


On  the  6th  of  November,  being  in  latitude  19°  3'  south, 
longitude  35°  50'  west,  the  colour  of  the  water  was  observed 
to  change,  upon  which  we  sounded,  and  found  ground  at  the 
depth  of  thirty-two  fathoms  ; the  lead  was  cast  three  times 
within  about  four  hours,  without  a foot  difference  in  the 
depth  or  quality  of  the  bottom,  which  was  coral  rock,  fine 
sand,  and  shells ; we  therefore  supposed  that  we  had  passed 
over  the  tail  of  the  great  shoal  which  is  laid  down  in  all 
our  charts  by  the  name  of  Abrothos,  on  which  Lord  Anson 
struck  soundings  in  his  passage  outwards.  At  four  the  next 
morning  we  had  no  ground  with  100  fathom. 

As  several  articles  of  our  stock  and  provisions  now 
began  to  fall  short,  I determined  to  put  into  Rio  de  J aneiro, 
rather  than  at  any  port  in  Brazil  or  Falkland’s  Islands, 
knowing  that  it  could  better  supply  us  with  what  we 
wanted. 

It  is  remarkable,  that,  during  the  last  three  or  four  days 
of  our  staying  in  the  harbour,  the  air  was  loaded  with  but- 
terflies. They  were  chiefly  of  one  sort,  but  in  such  numbers 
that  thousands  were  in  view  in  every  direction,  and  the 
greatest  part  of  them  above  our  mast-head. 

The  country,  at  a small  distance  round  the  town,  which 
is  all  that  any  of  us  saw,  is  beautiful  in  the  highest  degree  ; 
the  wildest  spots  being  varied  with  a greater  luxuriance  of 
flowers,  both  as  to  number  and  beauty,  than  the  best  ^gar- 
dens in  England. 

Upon  the  trees  and  bushes  sat  an  almost  endless  variety 
of  birds,  especially  small  ones,  many  of  them  covered  with 
the  most  elegant  plumage  ; among  which  were  the  hum- 
ming-bird. Of  insects  too  there  was  a great  variety,  and 
some  of  them  very  beautiful ; but  they  were  much  more 
nimble  than  those  of  Europe,  especially  the  butterflies, 
most  of  which  flew  near  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  were 


200 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


therefore  very  difficult  to  be  caught,  except  when  the  sea 
breeze  blew  fresh,  which  kept  them  nearer  to  the  ground. 

When  the  boat  which  had  been  sent  on  shore  returned, 
we  hoisted  her  on  board,  and  stood  out  to  sea. 

On  the  9th  of  December,  we  observed  the  sea  to  be 
covered  with  broad  streaks  of  a yellowish  colour,  several  of 
them  a mile  long,  and  three  or  four  hundred  yards  wide. 
Some  of  the  water  thus  coloured  was  taken  up,  and  found 
to  be  full  of  innumerable  atoms  pointed  at  the  end,  of  a 
Yellowish  colour,  and  none  more  than  a quarter  of  a line,  or 
the  fortieth  part  of  an  inch  long  In  the  microscope  they 
appeared  to  be  fascicula  of  small  fibres  interwoven  with 
each  other,  not  unlike  the  nidus  of  some  of  the  phyganeas , 
called  caddices  ; but  whether  they  were  animal  or  vegetable 
substances,  whence  they  came,  or  for  what  they  were  de- 
signed, neither  Mr.  Banks  nor  Dr.  Solander  could  guess. 
The  same  appearance  had  been  observed  before,  when  we 
first  discovered  the  continent  of  South  America. 

On  the  3d  of  January,  1769,  being  in  latitude  47o  17' 
S.  and  longitude  61°  29'  45"  W.,  we  were  all  looking  out 
for  Pepy’s  island,  and  for  some  time  an  appearance  wTas 
seen  in  the  east  which  so  much  resembled  land,  that  we 
bore  away  for  it ; and  it  was  more  than  two  hours  and  a 
half  before  we  were  convinced  that  it  was  nothing  but  what 
sailors  call  a fog-bank. 

The  people  now  beginning  to  complain  of  cold,  each  of 
them  received  what  is  called  a Magellanic  jacket,  and  a pair 
of  trowsers.  The  jacket  is  made  of  a thick  woollen  stuff, 
called  Fearnought , which  is  provided  by  the  government. 
We  saw,  from  time  to  time,  a great  number  of  penguins, 
albatrosses,  and  sheer-waters,  seals,  whales,  and  porpoises  ; 
and  on  the  11th,  having  passed  Falkland’s  Islands,  we  dis- 
covered the  coast  of  Terra  del  Fuego,  at  the  distance  oi 


A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


201 


about  four  leagues,  extending  from  the  W.  to  S.E.  by  S. 
We  had  here  five-and-thirty  fathom,  the  ground  soft,  small 
slate  stones.  As  we  ranged  along  the  shore  to  the  S.  E.  at 
the  distance  of  two  or  three  leagues,  we  perceived  smoke  in 
several  places,  which  was  made  by  the  natives,  probably  as 
a signal,  for  they  did  not  continue  it  after  we  had  passed  by. 

At  two  o’clock  on  the  15th  of  January,  we  anchored  in 
the  bay  of  Good  Success  ; and  after  dinner  I went  on  shore, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Banks  and  Dr.  Solander,  to  look  for  a 
watering-place,  and  speak  to  the  Indians,  several  of  whom 
had  come  in  sight.  We  landed  on  the  starboard  side  of 
the  bay  near  some  rocks,  which  made  smooth  water  and 
good  landing ; thirty  or  forty  of  the  Indians  soon  made 
their  appearance  at  the  end  of  a sandy  beach  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bay,  but  seeing  our  number,  which  was  ten  or 
twelve,  they  retreated.  Mr.  Banks  and  Dr.  Solander  then 
advanced  about  one  hundred  yards'  before  us,  upon  which 
two  of  the  Indians  returned,  and,  having  advanced  some 
paces  towards  them,  sat  down  ; as  soon  as  they  came  up, 
the  Indians  rose,  and  each  of  them  having  a small  stick  in 
his  hand  threw  it  away,  in  a direction  both  from  themselves 
and  the  strangers,  which  was  considered  as  the  renunciation 
of  weapons  in  token  of  peace.  They  then  walked  briskly 
towards  their  companions,  who  had  halted  at  about  fifty 
yards  behind  them,  and  beckoned  the  gentlemen  to  follow, 
which  they  did.  They  were  received  with  many  uncouth 
signs  of  friendship  ; and,  in  return,  they  distributed  among 
them  some  beads  and  ribbons,  which  had  been  brought  on 
shore  for  that  purpose,  and  with  which  they  were  greatly 
delighted.  A mutual  confidence  and  good-will  being  thus 
produced,  our  parties  joined  ; the  conversation,  such  as  it 
was,  became  general  ; and  three  of  them  accompanied  us 
back  to  the  ship.  When  they  came  on  board,  one  of  them, 


202 


A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  A D VENTURE. 


whom  we  took  to  be  a priest,  performed  much  the  same 
ceremonies  which  M.  Bougainville  describes,  and  supposes 
to  be  an  exorcism.  When  he  was  introduced  into  a new 
part  of  the  ship,  or  when  anything  that  he  had  not  seen 
before  caught  his  attention,  he  shouted  with  all  his  force 
for  some  minutes,  without  directing  his  voice  either  to  us 
or  his  companions.* 

*The  incident  related  by  Bougainville,  to  which  the  allusion  is  made, 
is  somewhat  affecting.  An  interesting  boy,  one  of  the  savages’  children, 
had  unwarily,  and  from  ignorance  of  its  dangerous  nature,  put  some  bits 
of  glass  into  his  mouth  which  the  sailors  gave  him.  His  lips  and  palate, 
&c.,  were  cut  in  several  places,  and  he  soon  began  to  spit  blood,  and  to  be 
violently  convulsed.  This  excited  the  most  distressing  alarm  and  sus- 
picion among  the  savages.  One  of  them,  whom  Bougainville  denominates 
a juggler,  immediately  had  recourse  to  very  strange  and  unlikely  means  in 
order  to  relieve  the  poor  child.  He  first  laid  him  on  his  back,  then  kneel- 
ing down  between  his  legs,  and  bending  himself,  he  pressed  the  child’s 
belly  as  much  as  he  could  with  his  head  and  hands,  crying  out  continually, 
but  with  inarticulate  sounds.  From  time  to  time  he  raised  himself,  and 
seeming  to  hold  the  disease  in  his  joined  hands,  opened  them  at  once  in- 
to the  air,  blowing,  as  if  he  drove  away  some  evil  spirit.  During  those 
rites,  an  old  woman  in  tears  howled  with  great  violence  in  the  child’s  ears. 
These  ceremonies,  however,  not  proving  effectual,  but  rather,  indeed,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  doing  mischief,  the  juggler  disappeared  for  a 
little  in  order,  as  should  seem,  to  procure  a peculiar  dress,  in  which  he 
might  practise  his  exorcism  with  greater  confidence  of  success,  and  to 
bring  a brother  in  the  trade,  similarly  apparalled,  to  aid  him  in 
his  labours.  But  so  much  the  worse  for  the  wretched  patient,  who  was 
now  pummelled  and  squeezed  all  over,  till  his  body  was  completely  bruised. 
Such  treatment,  it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say,  aggravated  hi-s  sufferings, 
but  accomplished  no  cure.  The  jugglers  at  last  consented  to  allow  the  in- 
terference of  the  French  surgeon,  but  appeared  to  be  very  jealous  of  his 
skill.  The  child  became  somewhat  easier  towards  night ; however,  from 
his  continual  sickness,  there  was  much  room  to  apprehend  that  he  had 
swallowed  some  of  the  glass,  and  died  in  consequence  ; for  “ about  two 
o’clock  in  the  morning,”  says  Bougainville,  “we  on  board  heard  repeated 
howls,  and  at  break  of  day,  though  the  weather  was  very  dreadful,  the 
savages  went  off.  They  doubtless,  fled  from  a place  defiled  by  death,  and 
by  unlucky  strangers,  who,  they  thought,  were  come  merely  to  destroy 
them.”  It  is  very  probable  that  the  person  whom  Cook  supposed  a priest, 


A SEA  VOYAGE,  AND  AN  ADVENTURE \ 203 

They  ate  some  bread  and  some  beef,  but  not  apparently 
with  much  pleasure,  though  such  part  of  what  was  given 
them  as  they  did  not  eat,  they  took  away  with  them ; but 
they  would  not  swallow  a drop  either  of  wine  or  spirits ; 
they  put  the  glass  to  their  lips,  but,  having  tasted  the 
liquor,  they  returned  it  with  strong  expressions  of  disgust. 
Curiosity  seems  to  be  one  of  the  few  passions  which  distin- 
guish men  from  brutes ; and  of  this  our  guests  appeared  to 
have  very  little.  They  went  from  one  part  of  the  ship  to 
another,  and  looked  at  the  vast  variety  of  new  objects  that 
every  moment  presented  themselves,  without  any  expression 
either  of  wonder  or  pleasure,  for  the  vociferation  of  our  ex- 
orcist seemed  to  be  neither. 

After  having  been  on  board  about  two  hours,  they  ex- 
pressed a desire  to  go  ashore.  A boat  was  immediately 
ordered,  and  Mr.  Banks  thought  fit  to  accompany  them 
He  landed  them  in  safety,  and  conducted  them  to  their 
companions,  among  whom  he  remarked  the  same  vacant  in- 
difference as  in  those  who  had  been  on  board  ; for  as  on  one 
side  there  appeared  no  eagerness  to  relate,  so  on  the  other 
side  there  seemed  to  be  no  curiosity  to  hear,  how  they  had 
been  received,  or  what  they  had  seen.  In  about  half  an  hour 
Mr.  Banks  returned  to  the  ship,  and  the  Indians  retired 
from  the  shore. 

On  the  16th,  early  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Banks  and  Dr. 
Solander,  with  their  astendants  and  servants,  and  two  sea- 
men, to  assist  in  carrying  the  baggage,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Monkhouse  the  surgeon,  and  Mr.  Green  the  astronomer,  set 
out  from  the  ship  with  a view  to  penetrate  as  far  as  they 

practised  the  charms  spoken  of,  in  order  to  destroy  any  ill  luck,  and  to  pre- 
vent the  occurrence  of  such  like  misfortunes  in  his  intercourse  with  the 
wonderful  strangers.  There  is  an  allusion  to  this  incident  in  a following 
section. — Kcer. 

9* 


204 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


could  into  the  country,  and  return  at  night.  The  hills,  when 
viewed  at  a distance,  seemed  to  be  partly  a wood,  partly  a 
plain,  and  above  them  a bare  rock.  Mr.  Banks  hoped  to 
get  through  the  wood,  and  made  no  doubt  but  that,  beyond 
it,  he  should,  in  a country  which  no  botanist  had  ever  yet 
visited,  find  alpine  plants  which  would  abundantly  compen- 
sate his  labour.  They  entered  the  wood  at  a small  sandy 
beach,  a little  to  the  westward  of  the  watering  place,  and 
continued  to  ascend  the  hill,  through  the  pathless  wilder- 
ness, till  three  o’clock,  before  they  got  a near  view  of  the 
places  which  they  intended  to  visit.  Soon  after  they  reach- 
ed what  they  had  taken  for  a plain  ; but,  to  their  great  disap- 
pointment, found  it  a swamp,  covered  with  low  bushes  of 
birch,  about  three  feet  high,  interwoven  with  each  other,  and 
so  stubborn  that  they  could  not  be  bent  out  of  the  way : it 
was  therefore  necessary  to  lift  the  leg  over  them,  which  at 
every  step  was  buried  ankle  deep  in  the  soil.  To  aggravate 
the  pain  and  difficulty  of  such  travelling,  the  weather,  which 
had  hitherto  been  very  fine,  much  like  one  of  our  bright 
days  in  May,  became  gloomy  and  cold,  with  sudden  blasts 
of  a most  piercing  wind,  accompanied  with  snow.  They 
pushed  forward,  however,  in  good  spirits,  notwithstanding 
their  fatigue,  hoping  the  worst  of  the  way  was  past,  and  that 
the  bare  rock  which  they  had  seen  from  the  tops  of  the 
lower  hills  was  not  more  than  a mile  before  them  ; but  when 
they  had  got  about  two-thirds  over  this  woody  swamp,  Mr. 
Buchan,  one  of  Mr.  Banks’s  draughtsmen,  was  unhappily 
seized  with  a fit.  This  made  it  necessary  for  the  whole  com- 
pany to  halt,  and  as  it  was  impossible  that  he  should 
go  any  farther,  a fire  was  kindled,  and  those  who  were  most 
fatigued  were  left  behind  to  take  care  of  him.  Mr.  Banks, 
Dr.  Solander,  Mr.  Green,  and  Mr.  Monkhouse,  went  on,  and 
in  a short  time  reached  the  summit.  As  botanists,  their 


A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


205 


expectations  were  here  abundantly  gratified  ; for  they  found 
a great  variety  of  plants,  which,  with  respect  to  the  alpine 
plants  in  Europe,  are  exactly  what  those  plants  are  with 
respect  to  such  as  grow  in  the  plain. 

The  cold  was  now  become  more  severe,  and  the  snow- 
blasts  more  frequent ; the  day  also  was  so  far  spent,  that  it 
was  found  impossible  to  get  back  to  the  ship,  before  the 
next  morning.  To  pass  the  night  upon  such  a mountain, 
in  such  a climate,  was  not  only  comfortless  but  dreadful ; 
it  was  impossible,  however,  to  be  avoided,  and  they  were  to 
provide  for  it  as  well  as  they  could. 

Mr.  Banks  and  Dr.  Solander,  while  they  were  improv- 
ing an  opportunity  which  they  had,  with  so  much  danger 
and  difficulty,  procured,  by  gathering  the  plants  which  they 
found  upon  the  mountain,  sent  Mr.  Green  and  Mr.  Monk- 
house  back  to  Mr.  Buchan  and  the  people  that  were  with 
him,  with  directions  to  bring,  them  to  a hill,  which  they 
thought  lay  in  a better  route  for  returning  to  the  wood, 
and  which  was  therefore  appointed  as  a general  rendez- 
vous. It  was  proposed,  that  from  this  hill  they  should  push 
through  the  swamp,  which  seemed  by  the  new  route  not  to 
be  more  than  half  a mile  over,  into  the  shelter  of  the  wood, 
and  there  build  their  wigwam,  and  make  a fire.  This,  as 
their  way  was  all  down  hill,  it  seemed  easy  to  accomplish. 
Their  whole  company  assembled  at  the  rendezvous,  and, 
though  pinched  with  the  cold,  were  in  health  and  spirits, 
Mr.  Buchan  himself  having  recovered  his  strength  in  a 
much  greater  degree  than  could  have  been  expected.  It 
was  now  near  eight  o’clock  in  the  evening,  but  still  good 
day-light,  and  they  set  forward  fer  the  nearest  valley,  Mr. 
Banks  himself  undertaking  to  bring  up  the  rear,  and  see 
that  no  straggler  was  left  behind.  This  may  perhaps  be 
thought  a superfluous  caution,  but  it  will  soon  appear  to  be 


206  -4  SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 

otherwise.  Dr.  Solander,  who  had  more  than  once  crossed 
the  mountains  which  divide  Sweden  from  Norway,  well 
knew  that  extreme  cold,  especially  when  joined  with  fatigue, 
produces  a torpor  and  sleepiness  that  are  almost  irresistible. 
He  therefore  conjured  the  company  to  keep  moving,  what- 
ever pain  it  might  cost  them,  and  whatever  relief  they 
might  be  promised  by  an  inclination  to  rest.  Whoever  sits 
down,  says  he,  will  sleep ; and  whoever  sleeps,  will  wake  no 
more.  Thus,  at  once  admonished  and  alarmed,  they  set 
forward  ; but  while  they  were  still  upon  the  naked  rock, 
and  before  they  had  got  among  the  bushes,  the  cold  became 
suddenly  so  intense,  as  to  produce  the  effects  that  had  been 
most  dreaded.  Dr.  Solander  himself  was  the  first  who 
found  the  inclination,  against  which  he  had  warned  others, 
irresistible  ; and  insisted  upon  being  suffered  to  lie  down. 
Mr.  Banks  entreated  and  remonstrated  in  vain,  down  he 
lay  upon  the  ground,  though  it  was  covered  with  snow  ; and 
it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  his  friend  kept  him  from 
sleeping.  Richmond  also,  one  of  the  black  servants,  began 
to  linger,  having  suffered  from  the  cold  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  doctor.  Mr.  Banks,  therefore,  sent  five  of  the  com- 
pany, among  whom  was  Mr.  Buchan,  forward  to  get  a fire 
ready  at  the  first  convenient  place  they  could  find ; and 
himself,  with  four  others,  remained  with  the  doctor  and 
Richmond,  whom,  partly  by  persuasion  and  entreaty,  and 
partly  by  force,  they  brought  on  ; but  when  they  had  got 
through  the  greatest  part  of  the  birch  and  swamp,  they  both 
declared  they  could  go  no  farther.  Mr.  Banks  had  recourse 
again  to  entreaty  and  expostulation,  but  they  produced  no 
effect.  When  Richmond  was  told,  that  if  he  did  not  go  on 
he  would  in  a short  time  be  frozen  to  death,  he  answered, 
that  he  desired  nothing  but  to  lie  down  and  die.  The 
doctor  did  not  so  explicitly  renounce  his  life  ; he  said  he 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


207 


was  willing  to  go  on,  but  that  he  must  first  take  some  sleep, 
though  he  had  before  told  the  company  that  to  sleep  was  to 
perish.  Mr.  Banks  and  the  rest  found  it  impossible  to  carry 
them,  and  there  being  no  remedy,  they  were  both  suffered 
to  sit  down,  being  partly  supported  by  the  bushes,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  they  fell  into  a.  profound  sleep.  Soon  after, 
some  of  the  people  who  had  been  sent  forward  returned, 
with  the  welcome  news  that  a fire  was  kindled  about  a 
quarter  of  a mile  farther  on  the  way.  Mr.  Banks  then  en- 
deavoured to  wake  Dr.  Solander,  and  happily  succeeded. 
But,  though  he  had  not  slept  five  minutes,  he  had  almost 
lost  the  use  of  his  limbs,  and  the  muscles  were  so  shrunk 
that  his  shoes  fell  from  his  feet ; he  consented  to  go  forward 
with  such  assistance  as  could  be  given  him,  but  no  attempts 
to  relieve  poor  Richmond  were  successful.  It  being  found 
impossible  to  make  him  stir,  after  some  time  had  been  lost 
in  the  attempt,  Mr.  Banks  le£t  his  other  black  servant  and 
a seaman,  who  seemed  to  have  suffered  least  by  the  cold, 
to  look  after  him  ; promising,  that  as  soon  as  two  others 
should  be  sufficiently  warmed,  they  should  be  relieved.  Mr. 
Banks,  with  much  difficulty,  at  length  got  the  doctor  to  the 
fire  ; and  soon  after  sent  two  of  the  people  who  had  been 
refreshed,  in  hopes  that,  with  the  assistance  of  those  who 
had  been  left  behind,  they  would  be  able  to  bring  Richmond, 
even  though  it  should  still  be  found  impossible  to  wake  him. 
In  about  half  an  hour,  however,  they  had  the  mortification 
to  see  these  two  men  return  alone  ; they  said,  that  they  had 
been  all  around  the  place  to  which  they  had  been  directed, 
but  could  neither  find  Richmond  nor  those  who  had  been 
left  with  him  ; and  that,  though  they  had  shouted  many 
times,  no  voice  had  replied.  This  was  matter  of  equal  sur- 
prise and  concern,  particularly  to  Mr.  Banks,  who,  while  he 
was  wondering  how  it  could  happen,  missed  a bottle  of  rum, 


208  A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE . 

the  company’s  whole  stock,  which  they  now  concluded  to  be 
in  the  knapsack  of  one  of  the  absentees.  It  was  conjectured, 
that  with  this  Richmond  had  been  roused  by  the  two  persons 
who  had  been  left  with  him,  and  that,  haying  perhaps  drank 
too  freely  of  it  themselves,  they  had  all  rambled  from  the 
place  where  they  had  been  left,  in  search  of  the  fire,  instead 
of  waiting  for  those  who  should  have  been  their  assistants 
and  guides.  Another  fall  of  snow  now  came  on,  and  con- 
tinued incessantly  for  two  hours,  so  that  all  hopes  of  seeing 
them  again,  at  least  alive,  were  given  up  ; but  about  twelve 
o’clock,  to  the  great  joy  of  those  at  the  fire,  a shouting  was 
heard  at  some  distance.  Mr.  Banks,  with  four  men,  imme- 
diate ly  went  out,  and  found  the  seaman  with  just  strength 
enough  left  to  stagger  along,  and  call  out  for  assistance. 
Mr.  Banks  sent  him  immediately  to  the  fire,  and,  by  his 
direction,  proceeded  in  search  of  the  other  two,  whom  he 
soon  after  found.  Richmond  was  upon  his  legs,  but  not 
able  to  put  one  before  the  other  ; his  companion  was  lying 
upon  the  ground,  as  insensible  as  a stone.  All  hands  were 
now  called  from  the  fire,  and  an  attempt  was  made  to  carry 
them  to  it ; but  this,  notwithstanding  the  united  efforts  of 
the  whole  company,  was  found  to  be  impossible.  The 
night  was  extremely  dark,  the  snow  was  now  very  deep, 
and,  under  these  additional  disadvantages,  they  found  it 
very  difficult  to  make  way  through  t'he  bushes  and  the  bog 
for  themselves,  all  of  them  getting  many  falls  in  the  at- 
tempt. The  only  alternative  was  to  make  a fire  upon  the 
spot ; but  the  snow  which  had  fallen,  and  was  still  falling, 
besides  what  was  every  moment  shaken  in  flakes  from  the 
trees,  rendered  it  equally  impracticable  to  kindle  one  there, 
and  to  bring  any  part  of  that  which  had  been  kindled  in 
the  wood  thither.  They  were,  therefore,  reduced  to  the  sad 
necessity  of  leaving  the  unhappy  wretches  to  their  fate  j 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE.  209 

having  first  made  them  a bed  of  boughs  from  the  trees,  and 
spread  a covering  of  the  same  kind  over  them  to  a consid- 
erable height. 

Haying  now  been  exposed  to  the  cold  and  the  snow  near 
an  hour  and  a half,  some  of  the  rest  began  to  lose  their  sen- 
sibility ; and  one  Briscoe,  another  of  Mr.  Banks’s  servants, 
was  so  ill,  that  it  was  thought  he  must  die  before  he  could 
be  got  to  the  fire. 

At  the  fire,  however,  at  length  they  arrived ; and  passed 
the  night  m a situation  which,  however  dreadful  in  itself, 
was  rendered  more  afflicting  by  the  remembrance  of  what 
was  past,  and  the  uncertainty  of  what  was  to  come.  Of 
twelve,  the  number  that  set  out  together  in  health  and  spirits, 
two  were  supposed  to  be  already  dead  ; a third  was  so  ill, 
that  it  was  very  doubtful  whether  he  would  be  able  to  go 
forward  in  the  morning  ; and  a fourth,  Mr.  Buchan,  was  in 
danger  of  a return  of  his  fits,  by  fresh  fatigue,  after  so  un- 
comfortable a night.  They  were  distant  from  the  ship  a 
long  day’s  journey,  through  pathless  woods,  in  which  it  was 
too  probable  they  might  be  bewildered  till  they  were  over- 
taken by  the  next  night;  and,  not  having  prepared  for  a 
journey  of  more  than  eight  or  ten  hours,  they  were  wholly 
destitute  of  provisions,  except  a vulture,  which  they  happened 
to  shoot  while  they  were  out,  and  which,  if  equally  divided, 
would  not  afford  each  of  them  half  a meal ; and  they  knew 
not  how  much  more  they  might  suffer  from  the  cold,  as  the 
snow  still  continued  to  fall, — a dreadful  testimony  of  the 
severity  of  the  climate,  as  it  was  now  the  midst  of  summer 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  the  21st  of  December  being  here 
the  longest  day ; and  everything  might  justly  be  dreaded 
from  a phenomenon  which,  in  the  corresponding  season,  is 
unknown  even  in  Norway  and  Lapland. 

When  the  morning  dawned,  they  saw  nothing  round  them 


210 


A SEA  VOYAGE , AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  but  snow,  which  seemed  to  lie 
as  thick  upon  the  trees  as  upon  the  ground  ; and  the  blasts 
returned  so  frequently,  and  with  such  violence,  that  they 
found  it  impossible  for  them  to  set  out.  How  long  this 
might  last  they  knew  not,  and  they  had  but  too  much  reason 
to  apprehend  that  it  would  confine  them  in  that  desolate 
forest  till  they  perished  with  hunger  and  cold. 

After  having  suffered  the  misery  and  terror  of  this  situa- 
tion till  six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  they  conceived  some  hope 
of  deliverance  by  discovering  the  place  of  the  sun  through 
the  clouds,  which  were  become  thinner,  and  began  to  break 
away.  Their  first  care  was  to  see  whether  the  poor  wretches 
whom  they  had  been  obliged  to  leave  among  the  bushes  were 
3~et  alive  ; three  of  the  company  were  dispatched  for  that 
purpose,  and  very  soon  afterwards  returned  with  the  melan- 
choly news  that  they  were  dead. 

Notwithstanding  the  flattering  appearance  of  the  sky, 
the  snow  still  continued  to  fall  so  thick  that  they  could  not 
venture  out  on  their  journey  to  the  ship  ; but  about  eight 
o’clock  a small  regular  breeze  sprung  up,  which,  with  the 
prevailing  influence  of  the  sun,  at  length  cleared  the  air  ; 
and  they  soon  after,  with  great  joy,  saw  the  snow  fall  in 
large  flakes  from  the  trees,  a certain  sign  of  an  approaching 
thaw.  They  now  examined  more  critically  the  state  of  their 
invalids.  Briscoe  was  still  very  ill,  but  said,  that  he  thought 
himself  able  to  walk  ; and  Mr.  Buchan  was  much  better  than 
either  he  or  his  friends  had  any  .reason  to  expect.  They 
were  now,  however,  pressed  by  the  calls  of  hunger,  to  which, 
after  long  fasting,  every  consideration  of  future  good  or  evil 
immediately  gives  way.  Before  they  set  forward,  therefore, 
it  was  unanimously  agreed  that  they  should  eat  their  vul- 
ture ; the  bird  was  accordingly  skinned,  and,  it  being  thought 
best  to  divide  it  before  it  was  fit  to  be  eaten,  it  was  cut  into 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE.  211 

ten  portions,  and  every  man  cooked  his  own  as  he  thought 
fit.  After  this  repast,  which  furnished  each  of  them  with 
about  three  mouthfuls,  they  prepared  to  set  out  ; but  it 
was  ten  o’clock  before  the  snow  was  sufficiently  gone  off,  to 
render  a march  practicable.  After  a walk  of  about  three 
hours,  they  were  agreeably  surprised  to  find  themselves  upon 
the  beach,  and  much  nearer  to  the  ship  than  they  had  any 
reason  to  expect.  Upon  reviewing  their  track  from  the 
vessel,  they  perceived  that,  instead  of  ascending  the  hill  in 
a line,  so  as  to  penetrate  into  the  country,  they  had  made 
almost  a circle  round  it.  When  they  came  on  board,  they 
congratulated  each  other  upon  their  safety,  with  a joy  that 
no  man  can  feel  who  has  not  been  exposed  to  equal  danger  ; 
and  as  I had  suffered  great  anxiety  at  their  not  returning 
in  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  they  set  out,  I was  not 
wholly  without  my  share. 

On  the  1st  of  March,  wTe  were  in  latitude  38°  447  S. 
and  longitude  110°  337  W.  Many  birds,  as1  usual,  were 
constantly  about  the  ship,  so  that  Mr.  Banks  killed  no  less 
than  sixty-two  in  one  day ; and  what  is  more  remarkable, 
he  caught  two  forest  flies,  both  of  them  of  the  same  species, 
but  different  from  any  that  have  hitherto  been  described ; 
these  probably  belonged  to  the  birds,  and  came  with  them 
from  the  land,  which  we  judged  to  be  at  a great  distance. 
Mr.  Banks,  also,  about  this  time,  found  a large  cuttle-fish, 
which  had  just  been  killed  by  the  birds,  floating  in  a man- 
gled condition  upon  the  water  ; it  is  very  different  from  the 
cuttle-fishes  that  are  found  in  the  European  seas  ; for  its 
arms,  instead  of  suckers,  were  furnished  with  a double  row 
of  very  sharp  talons,  which  resemble  those  of  a cat,  and, 
like  them,  were  retractable  into  a sheath  of  skin,  from  which 
they  might  be  thrust  at  pleasure.  Of  this  cuttle-fish  wo 
made  one  of  the  best  soups  we  had  ever  tasted. 


212  A SEA  VOYAGE ; AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 

The  albatrosses  now  began  to  leave  us,  and  after  the  8th 
there  was  not  one  to  be  seen.  We  continued  our  course 
without  any  memorable  event  till  the  24th,  when  some  of 
the  people  who  were  upon  the  watch  in  the  night  reported 
that  they  saw  a log  of  wood  pass  by  the  ship  ; and  that  the 
sea,  which  was  rather  rough,  became  suddenly  as  smooth  as 
a mill-pond.  It  was  a general  opinion  that  there  was  land 
to  windward  ; but  I did  not  think  myself  at  liberty  to 
search  for  what  I was  not  sure  to  find  ; though  I judged  we 
were  not  far  from  the  islands  that  were  discovered  by  Qui- 
ros  in  1G06.  Our  latitude  was  22°  1 1 7 S.  and  longitude 
127°  55'  W. 

On  the  25th,  about  noon,  one  of  the  marines,  a young 
fellow  about  twenty,  was  placed  as  sentry  at  the  cabin  door  ; 
while  he  was  upon  this  duty,  one  of  my  servants  was  at  the 
same  place  preparing  to  cut  a piece  of  seal-skin  into  tobacco- 
pouches.  He  had  promised  one  to  several  of  the  men,  but 
had  refused  one  to  this  young  fellow,  though  he  had  asked 
him  several  times ; upon  which  he  jocularly  threatened  to 
steal  one,  if  it  should  be  in  his  power.  It  happened  that 
the  servant,  being  called  hastily  away,  gave  the  skin  in 
charge  to  the  sentinel,  without  regarding  what  had  passed 
between  them.  The  sentinel  immediately  secured  a piece 
of  the  skin,  which  the  other  missing  at  his  return,  grew 
angry  ; but,  after  some  altercation,  contented  himself  with 
taking  it  away,  declaring  that,  for  so  trifling  an  affair,  he 
would  not  complain  of  him  to  the  officers.  But  it  happened 
that  one  of  his  fellow-soldiers,  overhearing  the  dispute,  came 
to  the  knowledge  of  what  had  happened,  and  told  it  to  the 
rest ; who,  taking  it  into  their  heads  to  stand  up  for  the 
honour  of  their  corps,  reproached  the  offender  with  great 
bitterness,  and  reviled  him  in  the  most  opprobrious  terms ; 
they  exaggerated  his  offence  into  a crime  of  the  deepest 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


21 


dye  ; they  said  it  was  a theft  by  a sentry  when  he  was  upon 
duty,  and  of  a thing  that  had  been  committed  to  his  trust ; 
they  declared  it  a disgrace  to  associate  with  him  ; and  the 
sergeant,  in  particular,  said,  that  if  the  person  from  whom 
the  skin  had  been  stolen  would  not  complain,  he  would  com- 
plain himself ; for  that  his  honour  would  suffer  if  the  offender 
was  not  punished.  From  the  scoffs  and  reproaches  of  these 
men  of  honour,  the  poor  young  fellow  retired  to  his  ham- 
mock in  an  agony  of  confusion  and  shame.  The  sergeant 
soon  after  went  to  him,  and  ordered  him  to  follow  him  to 
the  deck.  He  obeyed  without  reply  ; but  it  being  in  the 
dusk  of  the  evening,  he  slipped  from  the  sergeant  and  went 
forward.  He  was  seen  by  some  of  the  people,  who  thought 
he  was  gone  to  the  head  ; but  a search  being  made  for  him 
afterwards,  it  was  found  that  he  had  thrown  himself  over- 
board ; and  I was  then  first  made  acquainted  with  the  theft 
and  its  circumstances.  The  loss  of  this  man  was  the  more 
regretted,  as  he  was  remarkably  quiet  and  industrious.* 
About  one  o’clock,  on  Monday  the  10th  of  April,  some 
of  the  people  who  were  looking  out  for  the  island  to  which 
we  were  bound,  said  they  saw  land  ahead,  in  that  part  of 
the  horizon  where  it  was  expected  to  appear  ; but  it  was  so 
faint,  that,  whether  there  was  land  in  sight  or  not,  remained 
a matter  of  dispute  till  sunset.  The  next  morning,  how- 
ever, at  six  o’clock,  we  were  convinced  that  those  who  said 
they  had  discovered  land  were  not  mistaken  ; it  appeared 
to  be  very  high  and  mountainous,  extending  from  W.  by  S. 
^ S.  to  W.  by  N.  % N.  ; and  we  knew  it  to  be  the  same  that 
Captain  Wallis  had  called  King  George  the  Third’s  Island. 


* This  poor  lad  was  probably  one  of  the  most  conscientious  persons 
among  the  crew,  and  had  been  envied  for  his  good  conduct.  But  his  quiet 
may  have  been  accompanied  with  reserve,  an  unpopular  and  indeed  sus- 
picious quality. 


214 


A SEA  VOYAGE,  AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


Wc  were  delayed  in  our  approach  to  it  by  light  airs  and 
calms,  so  that  in  the  morning  of  the  12th  we  were  but  little 
nearer  than  we  had  been  the  night  before  ; but  about  seven 
a breez^  sprung  up,  and  before  eleven  several  canoes  were 
seen  making  towards  the  ship.  There  wTcre  but  few  of  them, 
however,  that  would  come  near ; and  the  people  in  those 
that  did,  could  not  be  persuaded  to  come  on  board.  In 
every  canoe  there  were  young  plantains,  and  branches  of  a 
tree  which  the  Indians  call  E'Midho  ; these,  as  we  after- 
wards learned,  were  brought  as  tokens  of  peace  and  amity ; 
and  the  people  in  one  of  the  canoes  handed  them  up  the 
ship’s  side,  making  signals  at  the  same  time  with  great 
earnestness  which  we  did  not  immediately  understand ; at 
length  we  guessed  that  they  wished  these  symbols  should 
be  placed  in  some  conspicuous  part  of  the  ship  ; we,  there- 
fore, immediately  stuck  them  among  the  rigging,  at  which 
they  expressed  the  greatest  satisfaction.  We  then  pur- 
chased their  cargoes,  consisting  of  cocoa-nuts,  and  various 
kinds  of  fruit,  which,  after  our  long  voyage,  were  very  ac- 
ceptable. 

We  stood  on  with  an  easy  sail  all  night,  with  soundings 
from  twenty-two  fathoms  to  twelve ; and  about  seven  o’clock 
in  the  morning  we  came  to  an  anchor  in  thirteen  fathoms  in 
Port  Royal  Bay-,  called  by  the  natives  Matavai.  We  were 
immediately  surrounded  by  the  natives  in  their  canoes,  who 
gave  us  cocoa-nuts,  fruit  resembling  apples,  bread-fruit,  and 
some  small  fishes,  in  exchange  for  beads  and  other  trifles. 
They  had  with  them  a pig,  which  they  would  not  part  with 
for  anything  but  a hatchet,  and  therefore  we  refused  to  pur- 
chase it ; because,  if  we  gave  them  a hatchet  for  a pig  now, 
we  knew  they  would  never  afterwards  sell  one  for  less,  and 
we  could  not  afford  to  buy  as  many  as  it  was  probable  we 
should  want  at  that  price.  The  bread-fruit  grows  on  a tree 


A SEA  VOYAGE \ AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


2 15 


that  is  about  the  size  of  a middling  oak  : its  leaves  are  fre- 
quently a foot  and  a half  long,  of  an  oblong  shape,  deeply 
sinuated  like  those  of  the  fig-tree,  which  they  resemble  in 
consistence  and  colour,  and  in  the  exuding  of  a white  milky 
juice  upon  being  broken.  The  fruit  is  about  the  size  and 
shape  of  a child’s  head,  and  the  surface  is  reticulated  not 
much  unlike  a truffle  ; it  is  covered  with  a thin  skin,  and 
has  a core  about  as  big  as  the  handle  of  a small  knife  ; the 
eatable  part  lies  between  the  skin  and  the  core  ; it  is  as 
white  as  snow,  and  somewhat  of  the  consistence  of  new 
bread.  It  must  be  roasted  before  it  is  eaten,  being  first 
divided  into  three  or  four  parts.  Its  taste  is  insipid,  with 
a slight  sweetness  somewhat  resembling  that  of  the  crumb 
of  wheaten  bread  mixed  with  a Jerusalem  artichoke. 

Among  others  who  came  off  to  the  ship  was  an  elderly 
man,  whose  name,  as  we  learned  afterwards,  was  Owliaw , 
and  who  was  immediately  known  to  Mr.  Gore  and  several 
others  who  had  been  here  with  Captain  Wallis.  As  I was 
informed  that  he  had  been  very  useful  to  them,  I took  him 
on  board  the  ship  with  some  others,  and  was  particularly 
attentive  to  gratify  him,  as  I hoped  he  might  also  be  useful 
to  us. 

As  soon  as  the  ship  was  properly  secured,  I went  on 
shore  with  Mr.  Banks,  and  Dr.  Solander,  a party  of  men 
under  arms,  and  our  friend  Owhaw.  We  were  received 
from  the  boat  by  some  hundreds  of  the  inhabitants,  whose 
looks  at  least  gave  us  welcome,  though  they  were  struck 
with  such  awe,  that  the  first  who  approached  us  crouched  so 
low  that  he  almost  crept  upon  his  hands  and  knees.  It  is 
remarkable,  that  he,  like  the  people  in  the'  canoes,  present- 
ed to  us  the  same  symbol  of  peace  that  is  known  to  have 
been  in  use  among  the  ancient  and  mighty  nations  of  the 
northern  hemisphere — the  green  branch  of  a tree.  We  re 


216  ^ SEA  VOYAGE . AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 

ceived  it  with  looks  and  gestures  of  kindness  and  satisfac 
tion  ; and  observing  that  each  of  them  held  one  in  his  hand, 
we  immediately  gathered  every  one  a bough,  and  carried  it 
in  our  hands  in  the  same  manner. 

They  marched  with  us  about  half  a mile  towards  the 
place  where  the  Dolphin  had  watered,  conducted  by  Owhaw  ; 
then  they  made  a full  stop,  and  having  laid  the  ground 
bare,  by  clearing  away  all  the  plants  that  grew  upon  it,  the 
principal  persons  among  them  threw  their  green  branches 
upon  the  naked  spot,  and  made  signs  that  we  should  do  the 
same.  We  immediately  showed  our  readiness  to  comply, 
and  to  give  a greater  solemnity  to  the  rite,  the  marines 
were  drawn  up,  and  marching  in  order,  each  dropped  his 
bough  upon  those  of  the  Indians,  and  we  followed  their  ex- 
ample. We  then  proceeded,  and  when  we  came  to  the 
watering-place  it  was  intimated  to  us  by  signs,  that  we 
might  occupy  that  ground,  but  it  happened  not  to  be  fit  for 
our  purpose.  During  our  walk  they  had  shaken  off  their 
first  timid  sense  of  our  superiority,  and  were  become  familiar; 
they  went  with  us  from  the  watering-place,  and  took  a cir- 
cuit through  the  woods.  As  we  went  along,  we  distributed 
beads  and  other  small  presents  among  them,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  to  see  that  they  were  much  gratified.  Our 
circuit  was  not  less  than  four  or  five  miles,  through  groves 
of  trees,  which  were  loaded  with  cocoa-nuts  and  bread-fruit, 
and  afforded  the  most  grateful  shade.  Under  these  trees 
were  the  habitations  of  the  people,  most  of  them  being  only 
a roof  without  walls,  and  the  whole  scene  realized  the  poet- 
ical fables  of  Arcadia. 


IksitiBSS,  SJnokft  nnir  Smtromrnt. 


It  is  a common  tiling  for  men  of  business  to  say  that  they  are 
“fond  of  books,  but  have  no  time  for  reading.”  In  some  instances 
this  may  really  be  the  case ; but,  for  the  most  part,  they  had  better 
acknowledge  that  they  care  little  for  what  they  can  find  no  time  to  do. 
In  these,  as  in  most  other  circumstances,  “ where  there  is  a will  there 
is  a way and  it  is  the  design  of  the  following  extracts  from  the  life 
of  William  Hutton  to  show  it.  They  may  be  of  service  both  to  em- 
ployers and  the  employed.  The  best  workman  is  he  who  can  do  his 
work  with  cheerfulness;  he  is  the  man  whose  nature  is  the  best  and 
completes^  who  has  his  faculties  most  about  him,  and  in  the  most 
fitting  abundance ; and  the  way  to  turn  our  faculties  to  the  best  ac- 
count, is  to  give  them  fair  play — to  see  that  the  senses  of  the  mind  (if 
we  may  so  call  them)  have  as  much  reasonable  fruition  as  those  that 
contribute  to  the  nourishment  and  refreshment  of  the  body.  Hutton 
of  Birmingham  (as  he  is  familiarly  called)  combined,  in  a remarkable 
manner,  prudence  with  enterprise,  industry  with  amusement,  and  the 
love  of  books  with  devotion  to  business,  and  all  because  he  was  a tho- 
rough human  being  of  his  class,  probably  from  causes  anterior  to  his 
birth.  Hot  that  his  father  was  a person  of  any  very  edifying  descrip- 
tion. His  son  gives  the  following  amusing  account  of  him : — “ Though 
my  father  was  neither  young,  being  forty-two,  nor  handsome,  having 
lost  an  eye,  nor  sober,  for  he  spent  all  he  could  get  in  liquor,  nor  clean, 
for  his  trade  was  oily,  nor  without  shackles,  for  he  had  five  children, 
yet  women  of  various  descriptions  courted  his  smiles,  and  were  much 
inclined  to  pull  caps  for  him.”  But  this  squalid  Lothario  probably  sup- 
plied him  with  wit  and  address,  and  his  mother  with  thought  and  a 
good  constitution. 

10 


218  PASSAGES  FROM  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  HUTTON. 


William  Ilutton  was  the  son  of  a poor  wool-worker,  lie  was 
brought  up  as  a poor  weaver,  had  not  a penny  in  the  world,  became  a 
bookbinder  under  the  poorest  auspices,  and  ended  with  being  a rich 
man,  and  living  in  wealth  and  honour  to  the  age  of  ninety-two.  The 
passages  selected  are  from  a life  of  him  written  by  himself,  and  in  the 
original  are  accompanied  with  a great  deal  of  additional  matter,  all 
worth  reading,  and  in  the  course  of  which  lie  gives  an  account  of  the 
rise  and  progress  of  his  courtship  of  Mrs.  Hutton,  here  only  intimated. 
He  was  one  of  the  sufferers  from  the  Riots  of  Birmingham  (which  he 
has  recorded),  and  author  of  amusing  Histories  of  that  town  and  of 
Derby.  The  Robert  Bage  whom  he  mentions  as  his  friend  and  bene- 
factor, and  who  was  another  man  of  his  sort,  though  in  every  respect 
of  a higher  class,  is  better  known  by  liis  writings  than  his  name,  being 
no  other  than  the  author  of  Hcrmsprong , Man  as  he  1%  and  other  novels 
well  known  to  the  readers  of  circulating  libraries,  and  admired  by  Wal- 
ter Scott.  Two  such  men  of  business  as  Ilutton  and  Robert  Bage  have 
seldom  come  together,  at  least  not  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  ; and  as  they 
came  in  the  shapes  of  bookseller  and  paper-maker,  we  have  special 
pleasure  in  thus  bringing  them  before  the  reader. 


PASSAGES  EPvOM  TIIE  AUTOBIOGFvAPIIY  OF  WILLIAM  IIUTTON. 

1741.  TT7HAT  the  mind  is  bent  upon  obtaining,  the 
» V hand  seldom  fails  in  accomplishing.  I de- 
tested the  frame,  as  totally  unsuitable  to  my  temper  5 there- 
fore I produeed  no  more  profit  than  necessity  demanded. 
I made  shift,  however,  with  a little  overwork  and  a little 
credit,  to  raise  a genteel  suit  of  clothes,  fully  adequate  to 
the  sphere  in  which  I moved.  The  girls  eyed  me  with 
some  attention  ; nay  I eyed  myself  as  much  as  any  of 
them 

1743.  At  Whitsuntide  I went  to  see  my  father,  and 
was  favourably  received  by  my  acquaintance.  One  of  them 
played  upon  the  bell-harp.  I was  charmed  with  the  sound, 
and  agreed  for  the  price,  when  I could  raise  the  sum,  half- 


a-crown. 


PASS  A GPS  FROM  A U TO  BIO  GRAPHY  OF  HUTTON.  2 1 9 


At  Michaelmas  I went  to  Derby,  to  pay  for  and  bring 
back  my  bell-harp,  whose  sound  I thought  seraphic.  This 
opened  a scene  of  pleasure  wThich  continued  many  years. 
Music  was  my  daily  study  and  delight.  But,  perhaps,  I 
laboured  under  greater  difficulties  than  any  one  had  done 
before  me.  I could  not  afford  an  instructor.  I had  no 
books,  nor  could  I borrow,  or  buy ; neither  had  I a friend 
to  give  me  the  least  hint,  or  put  my  instrument  in  tune. 

Thus  I was  in  the  situation  of  a first  inventor,  left  to 
grope  in  the  dark  to  find  something.  I had  first  my  ear  to 
bring  into  tune,  before  I could  tune  the  instrument ; for  the 
ear  is  the  foundation  of  all  music.  That  is  the  best  tune 
which  best  pleases  the  ear,  and  he  keeps  the  best  time  who 
draws  the  most  music  from  his  tune. 

For  six  months  did  I use  every  effort  to  bring  a tune 
out  of  an  instrument  which  was  so  dreadfully  out,  it  had  no 
tune  in  it.  Assiduity  never  forsook  me.  I was  encouraged 
by  a couplet  I had  seen  in  Dyee’s  Spelling-book : 

“ Despair  of  nothing  that  you  would  attain. 

Unwearied  diligence  your  point  will  gain !” 

When  I was  able  to  lay  a foundation,  the  improvement 
and  the  pleasure  were  progressive.  Wishing  to  rise,  I 
borrowed  a dulcimer,  made  one  by  it,  then  learned  to  play 
upon  it.  But  in  the  fabrication  of  this  instrument,  I had 
neither  timber  to  work  upon,  tools  to  work  with,  nor  money 
to  purchase  either.  It  is  said  “ necessity  is  the  mother  of 
invention.”  I pulled  a large  trunk  to  pieces,  one  of  the 
relics  of  my  family  but  formerly  the  property  of  Thomas 
Parker,  the  first  Earl  of  Macclesfield.  And  as  to  tools,  I con- 
sidered that  the  hammer-key  and  the  plyers  belonging  to 
the  stocking-frame,  would  supply  the  place  of  hammer  and 
pincers.  My  pocket  knife  was  all  the  edge-tools  I could 


220  PASSA  GES  FROM  A UTOBIOGRAPIIY  OF  HUTTON. 

raise ; a fork,  with  one  limb,  was  made  to  act  in  the  double 
capacity  of  spring-awl  and  gimlet. 

I quickly  was  master  of  this  piece  of  music  ; for  if  a 
man  can  play  upon  one  instrument  he  can  soon  learn  upon 
any. 

A young  man,  apprentice  to  a baker,  happening  to  see 
the  dulcimer,  asked  if  I could  perform  upon  it.  Struck 
with  the  sound,  and  with  seeing  me  play  with  what  he 
thought  great  ease,  he  asked  if  I would  part  with  the  in- 
strument, and  at  what  price  ? I answered  in  the  affirmative, 
and,  for  sixteen  shillings.  He  gave  it.  I told  him,  u If  he 
wanted  advice,  or  his  instrument  wanted  tuning,  I would 
assist  him.”  u Oh  no,  there’s  not  a doubt  but  I shall  do.” 
I bought  a coat  with  the  money,  and  constructed  a better 
instrument.  ........ 

1746.  An  inclination  for  books  began  to  expand;  but 
here,  as  in  music  and  dress,  money  was  wanting.  The  first 
article  of  purchase  was  three  volumes  of  the  Gentleman’s 
Magazine,  174*2,  3,  and  4.  As  I could  not  afford  to  pay  for 
binding,  I fastened  them  together  in  a most  cobbled  style. 
These  afforded  me  a treat. 

I could  only  raise  books  of  small  value,  and  these  in 
worn-out  bindings.  I learned  to  patch,  procured  paste, 
varnish,  &c.,  and  brought  them  into  tolerable  order  ; erect- 
ed shelves,  and  arranged  them  in  the  best  manner  I was 
able. 

If  I purchased  shabby  books,  it  is  no  wonder  that  I 
dealt  with  a shabby  bookseller  who  kept  his  working  appa- 
ratus in  his  shop.  It  is  no  wonder,  too,  if  by  repeated 
visits  I became  acquainted  with  this  shabby  bookseller,  and 
often  saw  him  at  work  ; but  it  is  a wonder  and  a fact,  that 
I never  saw  him  perform  one  act  but  I could  perform  it 
myself ; so  strong  was  the  desire  to  attain  the  art. 


PASS  A GES  FROM  A UTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  BUTTON.  22 1 

I made  no  secret  of  my  progress,  and  the  bookseller 
rather  encouraged  me,  and  for  two  reasons:  I bought  such 
rubbish  as  nobody  else  would  ; and  he  had  often  an  oppor- 
tunity of  selling  me  a cast-off  tool  for  a shilling,  not  worth 
a penny.  As  I was  below  every  degree  of  opposition,  a rival- 
ship  was  out  of  the  question. 

The  first  book  I bound  was  a very  small  one,  Shak- 
speare’s  Venus  and  Adonis.  I showed  it  to  the  bookseller. 
He  seemed  surprised.  I could  see  jealousy  in  his  eye. 
However,  he  recovered  in  a moment.  He  had  no  doubt 
but  I should  break. 

He  offered  me  a worn-down  press  for  two  shillings, 
which  no  man  could  use,  and  which  was  laid  by  for  the  fire. 
I considered  the  nature  of  its  construction,  bought  it,  and 
paid  the  two  shillings.  I then  asked  him  to  favour  me  with 
a hammer  and  a pin,  which  he  brought  with  half  a conquer- 
ing smile,  and  half  a sneer.  A drove  out  the  garter-pin, 
which,  being  galled,  prevented  the  press  from  working,  and 
turned  another  square,  which  perfectly  cured  the  press.  He 
said  in  anger,  “ If  I had  known,  you  should  not  have  had 
it.”  However,  I could  see  he  consoled  himself  with  the 
idea  that  all  must  return  in  the  end.  This  proved  for  forty- 
two  years  my  best  binding  press. 

I now  purchased  a tolerably  genteel  suit  of  clothes,  and 
was  so  careful  of  them,  lest  I should  not  be  able  to  procure 
another,  that  they  continued  my  best  for  five  years. 

The  stocking-frame  being  my  own,  and  trade  being  dead, 
the  hosiers  would  not  employ  me  ; they  could  scarcely  em- 
ploy their  own  frames.  I was  advised  to  try  Leicester,  and 
took  with  me  half-a-dozen  pair  of  stockings  to  sell.  I visited 
several  warehouses ; but,  alas ! all  proved  blank.  They 
would  neither  employ  me,  nor  give  for  my  goods  anything 
near  prime  cost.  As  I stood  like  a culprit  before  a gentle- 


222  PASSAGES  FROM  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  HUTTON. 


man  of  the  name  of  Bennet,  I was  so  affected,  that  I burst 
into  tears,  to  think  that  I should  have  served  seven  years 
to  a trade  at  which  I could  not  get  bread. 

My  sister  took  a house,  and  to  soften  the  rent,  my 
brother  and  I lodged  with  her. 

1747.  It  had  been  the  pride  of  my  life,  ever  since  pride 
commenced,  to  wear  a watch.  I bought  a silver  one  for 
thirty-five  shillings.  It  went  ill.  I kept  it  for  four  years, 
then  gave  that  and  a guinea  for  another,  which  went  as  ill. 
I afterwards  exchanged  this  for  a brass  one,  which  going  no 
better,  I sold  it  for  five  shillings ; and  to  complete  the 
watch  farce,  I gave  the  five  shillings  away,  and  went  with- 
out a watch  thirty  years. 

I had  promised  to  visit  my  father  on  Whitsun  eve,  at 
Derby.  Business  detained  me  till  it  was  eleven  at  night 
before  I arrived.  Expectation  had  for  some  time  been  on 
the  stretch,  and  was  now  giving  way.  My  father  being 
elevated  with  liquor,  and  by  my  arrival,  rose  in  ecstasy, 
and  gave  me  the  first  kiss,  and,  I believe,  the  last  he  ever 
gave  me. 

This  year  I began  to  dip  into  rhyme.  The  stream  was 
pleasant,  though  I doubt  whether  it  flowed  from  Helicon. 
Many  little  pieces  were  the  produce  of  my  pen,  which,  per- 
haps, pleased  ; however,  they  gave  no  offence,  for  they  slept 
on  my  shelf  till  the  rioters  burnt  them  in  1791. 

1748.  Every  soul  who  knew  me  scoffed  at  the  idea  of 
my  book-binding,  except  my  sister,  who  encouraged  and 
aided  me  ; otherwise  I must  have  sunk  under  it.  I con- 
sidered that  I was  naturally  of  a frugal  temper  ; that  I 
could  watch  every  penny,  live  upon  a little  ; that  I hated 
stocking-making,  but  not  book-binding ; that  if  I continued 
at  the  frame,  I was  certain  to  be  poor ; and  if  I ventured 
to  leave  it,  I could  not  be  so.  My  only  fear  was  lest  I 


PASSAGES  PROM  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  HUTTON.  223 

should  draw  in  my  friends ; for  I had  nothing  of  my 
own. 

I had  frequently  heard  that  every  man  had,  some  time 
or  other  in  his  life,  an  opportunity  of  rising.  As  this  was 
a received  opinion,  I would  not  contradict  it.  I had,  how- 
ever, watched  many  years  for  the  high  tide  of  my  affairs, 
but  thought  it  never  yet  had  reached  me. 

I still  pursued  the  two  trades.  Hurt  to  see  my  three 
volumes  of  magazines  in  so  degraded  a state,  I took  them 
to  pieces,  and  clothed  them  in  a superior  dress. 

1749.  It  was  now  time  to  look  out  for  a future  place  of 
residence.  A large  town  must  be  the  mark,  or  there  would 
be  no  room  for  exertion.  London  was  thought  of,  between 
my  sister  and  me,  for  I had  no  soul  else  to  consult.  This 
was  rejected  for  two  reasons.  I could  not  venture  into  such 
a place  without  a capital,  and  my  work  was  not  likely  to 
pass  among  a crowd  of  judges. . 

My  plan  was  to  fix  upon  some  market  town,  within  a 
stage  of  Nottingham,  and  open  shop  there  on  the  market 
day,  till  I should  be  better  prepared  to  begin  the  world 
at  Birmingham. 

I fixed  upon  Southwell,  as  the  first  step  of  elevation. 
It  was  fourteen  miles  distant,  and  the  town  as  despicable 
as  the  road  to  it.  I went  over  at  Michaelmas,  took  a shop 
at  the  rate  of  twenty  shillings  a-year,  sent  a few  boards  for 
shelves,  a few  tools,  and  about  two  hundredweight  of  trash , 
which  might  be  dignified  with  the  name  of  books , and  worth, 
perhaps,  a year’s  rent  of  my  shop.  I was  my  own  joiner, 
put  up  the  shelves  and  their  furniture,  and  in  one  day  be- 
came the  most  eminent  bookseller  in  the  place. 

During  this  rainy  winter,  I set  out  at  five  every  Satur- 
day morning,  carried  a burden  of  from  three  pounds  weight 
to  thirty,  opened  shop  at  ten,  starved  in  it  all  day  upon 


224  PASS  A GES  FROM  A UTOBIOGRA  VllY  OF  HUTTON. 

bread,  cheese,  and  half  a pint  of  ale,  took  from  one  to  six 
shillings,  shut  up  at  four,  and  by  trudging  through  the 
solitary  night  and  the  deep  roads  five  hours  more,  I ar- 
rived at  Nottingham  by  nine  ; where  I always  found  a mess 
of  milk  porridge  by  the  fire,  prepared  by  my  valuable  sister. 

Nothing  short  of  a surprising  resolution  and  rigid  eco- 
nomy could  have  carried  me  through  this  scene. 

1750.  Returning  to  Nottingham,  I gave  warning  to  quit 
at  Southwell,  and  prepared  for  a total  change  of  life. 

On  the  10th  of  April,  I entered  Birmingham,  for  the 
third  time,  to  try  if  I could  be  accommodated  with  a 
small  shop.  If  I could  procure  any  situation,  I should  be 
in  the  way  of  procuring  a better.  On  the  1 1 th  I travelled 
the  streets  of  Birmingham,  agreed  with  Mrs.  Dix  for  the 
lesser  half  of  her  shop,  No.  6 in  Bull  Street,  at  one  shilling 
a-week ; and  slept  at  Lichfield  in  my  way  back  to  Not- 
tingham. 

On  May  13th,  Mr.  Rudsdall,  a dissenting  minister  of 
Gainsborough,  with  whom  my  sister  had  lived  as  a servant, 
travelling  from  Nottingham  to  Stamford,  requested  my 
company,  and  offered  to  pay  my  expenses,  and  give  me 
eighteenpence  a day  for  my  time.  The  afternoon  was  wet 
in  the  extreme.  He  asked  why  I did  not  bring  my  great- 
coat? Shame  forbade  an  answer,  or  I could  have  said  I 
had  none.  The  water  completely  soaked  through  my  clothes, 
but  not  being  able  to  penetrate  the  skin,  it  filled  my  boots. 
Arriving  at  the  inn,  every  traveller,  I found,  was  wet;  and 
every  one  produced  a change  of  apparel  but  me.  I was 
left  out  because  the  house  could  produce  no  more.  I was 
obliged  to  sit  the  whole  evening  in  my  drenched  garments, 
and  to  put  them  on  nearly  as  wet  on  my  return  the  next 
morning!  What  could  I expect  but  destruction ? Fortu- 
nately I sustained  no  injury. 


PASSAGES  FROM  A UTO BIOGRAPHY  OF  HUTTON.  225 

It  happened  that  Mr.  Rudsdall,  now  declined  house- 
keeping, his  wife  being  dead.  He  told  my  sister  that  he 
should  part  with  the  refuse  of  his  library,  and  would  sell  it 
to  me.  She  replied,  u He  has  no  money.”  ci  We  will  not 
differ  about  that.  Let  him  come  to  Gainsborough  ; he  shall 
have  the  books  at  his  own  price.”  I walked  to  Gainsborough 
on  the  15tli  of  May,  stayed  there  the  16th,  and  came  back 
on  the  17th. 

The  books  were  about  two  hundred  pounds’  weight.  Mr. 
Rudsdall  gave  me  his  corn  chest  for  their  deposit ; and  for 
payment,  drew  the  following  note,  which  I signed  : — 

u I promise  to  pay  to  Ambrose  Rudsdall,  one  pound 
seven  shillings,  when  I am  able.”  Mr.  Rudsdall  observed, 
“ You  never  need  pay  this  note  if  you  only  say  you  are  not 
able.”  The  books  made  a better  show,  and  were  more  val- 
uable than  all  I possessed  beside. 

I had  now  a most  severe  trial  to  undergo ; parting  with 
my  friends,  and  residing  wholly  among  strangers.  May 
23rd,  I left  Nottingham,  and  I arrived  at  Birmingham  on 
the  25th.  Having  little  to  do  but  look  into  the  street,  it 
seemed  singular  to  see  thousands  of  faces  pass,  and  not  one 
that  I knew.  I had  entered  a new  world,  in  which  I led 
a melancholy  life,  a life  of  silence  and  tears.  Though  a 
young  man,  and  of  rather  a cheerful  turn,  it  was  remarked 
“ that  I was  never  seen  to  smile.” 

The  rude  family  into  which  I was  cast  added  to  the 
load  of  melancholy. 

My  brother  came  to  see  me  about  six  weeks  after  my 
arrival,  to  whom  I observed,  that  the  trade  had  fully  sup- 
ported me.  Five  shillings  a-week  covered  every  expense; 
as  food,  rent,  washing,  lodging,  &c.  Thus  a solitary  year 
rolled  round,  when  a few  young  men  of  elevated  character 
and  sense  took  notice  of  me.  I had  saved  about  twenty 
10* 


226  PASSAGES  FROM  A UT0BI0GRAPJ1Y  OF  HUTTON. 

pounds,  and  was  become  more  reconciled  to  my  situation. 
The  first  who  took  a fancy  to  me  was  Samuel  Salte,  a mer-' 
cer’s  apprentice,  who  five  years  after,  resided  in  London, 
where  he  acquired  £100,000.  He  died  in  1797.  Our  inti- 
macy lasted  his  life. 

In  this  first  opening  of  prosperity,  an  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstance occurred  which  gave  me  great  uneasiness,  as  it 
threatened  totally  to  eclipse  the  small  prospect  before  me. 
The  overseers,  fearful  I should  become  chargeable  to  the 
parish,  examined  me  with  regard  to  my  settlement ; and, 
with  the  voice  of  authority,  ordered  me  to  procure  a certifi- 
cate, or  they  would  remove  me.  Terrified,  I wrote  to  my 
father,  who  returned  for  answer,  u That  All  Saints,  in  Derby, 
never  granted  certificates.” 

I was  hunted  by  ill-nature  two  years.  I repeatedly  of. 
fered  to  pay  the  levies,  which  was  refused.  A succeeding 
overseer,  a draper,  of  whom  I had  purchased  two  suits  of 
clothes,  value  £10,  consented  to  take  them.  The  scruple 
exhibited  a short  sight,  a narrow  principle,  and  the  exulta- 
tions of  power  over  the  defenceless. 

Among  others  who  wished  to  serve  me,  I had  two  friends, 
Mr.  Dowler,  a surgeon,  who  resided  opposite  me,  and  Mr. 
Grace,  a hosier  at  the  Gateway,  in  the  High-street.  Great 
consequences  often  arise  from  small  things.  The  house  ad- 
joining that  of  Mr.  Grace’s,  was  to  be  let.  My  friends  both 
urged  me  to  take  it.  I was  frightened  at  the  rent,  eight 
pounds.  However,  one  drew,  and  the  other  pushed,  till 
they  placed  me  there.  A small  house  is  too  large  for  a man 
without  furniture,  and  a small  rent  may  be  too  large  for  an 
income  which  has  nothing  certain  in  it  but  the  smallness 
Having  felt  the  extreme  of  poverty,  I dreaded  nothing  so 
much ; but  I believed  I had  seized  the  tide,  and  I was  un- 
willing to  stop. 


PASSAGES  FROM  A UTOBIOGRAPUY  OF  HUTTON,  227 


Here  I pursued  business  in  a more  elevated  style,  and 
with  more  success. 

No  event  in  a man’s  life  is  more  consequential  than  mar- 
riage ; nor  is  any  more  uncertain.  Upon  this  die  his  sum 
of  happiness  depends.  Pleasing  views  arise,  which  vanish 
as  the  cloud  ; because,  like  that,  they  have  no  foundation. 
Circumstances  change,  and  tempers  with  them.  Let  a 
man’s  prior  judgment  be  ever  so  sound,  he  cannot  foresee  a 
change  ; therefore  he  is  liable  to  deception.  I was  de- 
ceived myself,  but,  thanks  to  my  kind  fate,  it  was  on  the 
right  side.  I found  in  my  wife  more  than  I ever  expected 
to  find  in  woman.  Just  in  proportion  as  I loved  her,  I 
must  regret  her  loss.  If  my  father,  with  whom  I onty  lived 
fourteen  years,  who  loved  me  less,  and  has  been  gone  forty, 
never  is  a day  out  of  my  thoughts,  what  must  be  my  thoughts 
towards  her,  who  loved  me  as  herself,  and  with  whom  I 
resided  an  age  ! 

1756. — My  dear  wife  brought  me  a little  daughter,  who 
has  been  the  pleasure  of  my  life  to  this  day.  We  had  now 
a delightful  plaything  for  both. 

Robert  Bage,  an  old  and  intimate  friend,  and  a paper- 
maker,  took  me  to  his  inn,  where  we  spent  the  evening. 
He  proposed  that  I should  sell  paper  for  him,  which  I 
might  either  buy  on  my  own  account,  or  sell  on  his  by 
commission.  As  I could  spare  one  or  two  hundred  pounds, 
I chose  to  purchase ; therefore  appropriated  a room  for  the 
reception  of  goods,  and  hung  out  a sign — The  Paper  Ware- 
house. From  this  small  hint  I followed  the  stroke  forty 
years,  and  acquired  an  ample  fortune. 

1763. — We  took  several  pleasurable  journeys;  among 
others,  one  at  Aston,  and  in  a superior  style  to  what  we  had 
done  before.  This  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  us  Birming- 


228  PASSAGES  FROM  A U TO  BIO  GRA  PH  Y OF  HUTTON. 

ham  men  : if  ever  wc  acquire  live  pounds  extraordinary,  w. 
take  care  to  show  it. 

1764. — Every  man  has  his  hobby-horse  and  it  is  no  dis- 
grace prudently  to  ride  him.  He  is  the  prudent  man  who 
can  introduce  cheap  pleasures  without  impeding  business. 

About  ten  of  us,  intimate  friends,  amused  ourselves 
with  playing  at  tennis.  Entertained  with  the  diversion, 
we  erected  a tennis-court  and  met  on  fine  evenings  for  amuse- 
ment, without  expense.  I was  constituted  steward  of  our 
little  fraternity. 

My  family  continued  their  journeys,  and  were  in  a pros- 
perous state. 


THE  END. 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  SECOND  SERIES. 


Against  Inconsistency  in  our  Expectations  . Mrs.  Barbauld.  7 
The  Enchantments  of  the  Wizard  Indolence,  and  Exploits  of 
the  Knight  Sir  Industry.  From  the  “ Castle  of  Indolence” 

Thomson . 14 

Stories,  now  first  collected,  from  the  “ Tatler,”  “ Spectator,” 


and  “ Guardian” Sir  Richard  Steele . 39 

Valentine  and  Unnion 42 

The  Fire 43 

The  Wedding  Day  . . . 46 

The  Shipwreck 48 

The  Alchemists 50 

The  Violent  Husband 54 

Inkle  and  Yarico  55 

The  Fits 58 

Clubs  of  Steele  and  Goldsmith 61 

The  Spectator’s  Club  Steele.  65 

The  Club  of  the  Tatler “ 71 

Clubs — Choice  Spirits — Muzzy  Club — Harmonical  So- 
ciety   Goldsmith.  77 

Count  Fathom’s  Adventure  in  the  Lone  Cottage  . Smollett.  84 

The  Hermit Parnell.  93 

Peter  Pounce’s  Dialogue  with  Parson  Adams.  From  “Joseph 

Andrews” Fielding.  104 

Verses  Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley Shenstone.  Ill 

Five  Letters Gray.  115 

To  Horace  Walpole — A Fox-hunter — A Poet’s  Solitude 

— Southern  the  Dramatist 116 

To  Richard  West — Bad  Spirits — Recollections  of  Hus- 
bands and  Statesmen  at  School 118 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


To  the  Reverend  Norton  Nicholls — Banter  of  Formal 
Excuses  and  Fine  Exordiums — Southampton  — An 

Abbot — Sunrise 

To  the  Same — A Mother — Scenery  of  Kent  . . . 

To  the  Same — Having  a Garden  of  One’s  Own — Shen- 
stone — Second  Banter  of  Formal  Apologies  . . . . 
Advantages  of  Cultivating  a Taste  for  Pictures  Jon . Richardson. 
Ode  on  a Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  ....  Gray. 

A Long  Story « 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  From  the  “ Spectator”  . . Addison. 

Sir  Roger’s  Household  Establishment 

His  Behavior  in  Church  on  a Sunday 

Sir  Roger  and  the  Gipsies 

His  Visit  to  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey  . . . 

Manners  of  the  French Colonel  Pinckney. 

A House  and  Grounds 

Thoughts  on  a Garden.  From  a Letter  to  Evelyn.  Cowley. 
Thoughts  on  Retirement.  From  one  of  his  Letters 

Sir  W.  Temple. 

Old  English  Garden  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  “ 


Petition  for  an  Absolute  Retreat  . . Lady  Winchilsea. 
An  Old  Country  House  and  an  Old  Lady.  From  the 
“ Lounger” Mackenzie. 


Love  of  the  Country  in  the  Decline  of  Life.  From  the 

same 

Two  Sonnets,  and  an  Inscription  on  a Spring.  Thomas  Warton. 

Inscription  over  a Calm  and  Clear  Spring 

Written  in  a Blank  Leaf  of  Dugdale’s  “Monasticon”  . . 

Written  after  seeing  Wilton  House 

Descriptions  of  Night.  From  the  Notes  to  Ossian  . Macpherson. 
Retirement  and  Death  of  a Statesman.  From  “ Memoirs  of  The 


Right  Honorable  Charles  James  Fox” Trotter. 

Elegy  in  a Country  Churchyard Gray. 


page 

, 119 

121 

123 

126 

136 

140 

148 

148 

152 

155 

159 

164 

173 

178 

183 

185 

188 

192 

198 

204 

205 

205 

205 

207 

214 

222 


Slgainst  Snniusistcnnj  iu  nur  #xpBrtntinns. 


FROM  AN  ESSAY  BY  MRS.  BARBAULD. 

Better  writing  or  reasoning  than  the  following  it  would  not  be 
easy  to  find.  There  are  some  additional  remarks  in  the  original, 
which,  though  not  without  merit,  w$  cannot  help  thinking  by  an  in- 
ferior hand,  and  have,  therefore,  omitted.  Every  sentence  here  set 
down  is  admirable ; nor  is  there  anything,  however  vigorous  in  the 
tone,  which  a noble-minded  woman  might  not  utter,  without  commit- 
ting the  delicacy  of  her  sex.  All  is  conformable  to  kindness  as  well 
as  zeal,  and  to  the  beauty  of  right  thinking. 

In  reading  this  excellent  piece  of  advice  one  feels  astonished  to 
think  how  so  many  could  have  stood  in  need  of  it,  ourselves  perhaps 
among  the  number.  But  so  it  is.  We  feel  it  to  have  been  necessary, 
while  we  are  surprised  at  its  having  been  so ; and  we  become  anxious 
that  all  the  world  should  be  acquainted  with  it.  The  good  it  is  cal- 
culated to  do  is  evident,  and  of  the  greatest  importance.  We  have 
heard  of  reflecting  men  who  are  proud  to  acknowledge  their  obliga- 
tions to  it ; who  say  it  has  influenced  the  greater  part  of  their  lives ; 
and  we  know  of  others  who  have  spoken  of  it  with  admiration  ; Mr. 
Hazlitt  for  one. 

At  the  same  time,  good  as  the  spirit  of  the  admonition  is  for  every- 
body, the  line  drawn  between  the  seekers  of  wealth  and  the  cultiva- 
tors of  wisdom  appears  to  us  to  be  a little  too  strong ; or  at  least  to 
have  become  so  in  our  days,  whatever  the  case  may  have  been  in 
those  in  which  it  was  written.  The  recognition  of  the  beauty  and 


8 


AGAINST  INCONSISTENCY 


even  the  utility  of  mental  accomplishments  has  latterly  been  keeping 
better  pace  with  commercial  industry ; men  in  trade  have  influenced 
the  opinions  of  the  world  on  the  most  unexpected  and  important 
points,  by  means  of  their  share  of  them ; and  in  the  passages  ex- 
tracted from  the  biography  of  Hutton,  the  reader  has  seen  an  account 
of  a man  who,  in  Mrs.  Barbauld’s  own  time,  rose  to  wealth  from  the 
humblest  beginnings,  and  whose  career  was  accompanied,  neverthe- 
less, by  a love  of  books  and  by  liberal  feelings,  by  the  regard  and 
assistance  of  men  of  genius,  and  by  the  warmest  affections  of  his 
family.  The  instance  of  his  distinguished  friend  Bage,  the  novelist 
and  paper-maker,  is  still  more  striking  on  the  side  of  independence. 
But  we  have  noticed  them  both  more  at  large  in  the  place  referred 
to,  as  well  as  the  exceptions  to  sordid  rules  that  have  occurred  in  all 
ages  and  nations.  Still  the  essay  remains  necessary  to  many,  useful 
and  a good  caution  to  all. 

Our  gratitude  must  not  forget,  that  the  chief  honor  of  the  admoni- 
tion remains  with  the  good  old  Stoic  philosopher,  the  following  pas- 
sage out  of  whose  writings  Mrs.  Barbauld  made  the  text  of  her 
sermon : — 

“ What  is  more  reasonable  than  that  they  who  take  pains  for  anything,  should 
get  most  in  that  particular  for  which  they  take  pains  ? They  have  taken  pains  for 
power,  you  for  right  principles ; they  for  riches,  you  for  a proper  use  of  the  appear- 
ance of  things.  See  whether  they  have  the  advantage  of  you  in  that  for  which  you 
have  taken  pains,  and  which  they  neglect.  If  they  are  in  power,  and  you  not,  why 
will  not  you  speak  the  truth  to  yourself,  that  you  do  nothing  for  the  sake  of  power, 
but  that  they  do  everything?  No;  but  since  I take  care  to  have  right  principles, 
it  is  more  reasonable  that  I should  have  power.  Yes,  in  respect  to  what  you  take 
care  about,  your  principles ; but  give  up  to  others  the  things  in  which  they  have 
taken  more  care  than  you;  else  it  is  just  as  if,  because  you  have  right  principles, 
you  should  think  it  fit  that  when  you  shoot  an  arrow  you  should  hit  the  mark  better 
than  an  archer,  or  that  you  should  forge  better  than  a smith.” — Carter’s  Epictetus. 

AS  most  of  the  unhappiness  in  the  world  arises  rather  from 
disappointed  desires  than  from  positive  evil,  it  is  of  the 
utmost  consequence  to  attain  just  notions  of  the  laws  and 
order  of  the  universe,  that  we  may  not  vex  ourselves  with 
fruitless  wishes,  or  give  way  to  groundless  and  unreasonable 
discontent.  The  laws  of  natural  philosophy,  indeed,  are 
tolerably  understood  and  attended  to  j and,  though  we  may 


IN  OUR  EXPECTATIONS.  9 

suffer  inconveniences,  we  are  seldom  disappointed  in  con- 
sequence of  them.  No  man  expects  to  preserve  oranges 
through  an  English  winter ; or  when  he  has  planted  an 
acorn,  to  see  it  become  a large  oak  in  a few  months.  The 
mind  of  man  naturally  yields  to  necessity,  and  our  wishes 
soon  subside  when  we  see  the  impossibility  of  their  being 
gratified.  Now,  upon  an  accurate  inspection,  we  shall  find 
in  the  moral  government  of  the  world,  and  the  order  of  the 
intellectual  system,  laws  as  determinate,  fixed,  and  invariable 
as  any  in  Newton’s  Principia.  The  progress  of  vegetation 
is  not  more  certain  than  the  growth  of  habit ; nor  is  the 
power  of  attraction  more  clearly  proved,  than  the  force  of 
affection,  or  the  influence  of  example.  The  man,  therefore, 
who  has  well  studied  the  operations  of  nature  in  mind  as 
well  as  matter,  will  acquire  a certain  moderation  and  equity 
in  his  claims  upon  Providence  ; he  will  never  be  disappointed 
either  in  himself  or  others  ; he  "will  act  with  precision,  and 
expect  that  effect,  and  that  alone,  from  his  efforts,  which 
they  are  naturally  adapted  to  produce.  For  want  of  this, 
men  of  merit  and  integrity  often  censure  the  dispositions  of 
Providence  for  suffering  the  characters  they  despise  to  run 
away  with  advantages  which,  they  yet  know,  are  purchased 
by  such  means  as  a high  and  noble  spirit  could  never  submit 
to.  If  you  refuse  to  pay  the  price,  why  expect  the  purchase  ? 
We  should  consider  this  world  as  a great  mart  of  commerce, 
where  Fortune  exposes  to  our  view  various  commodities, — • 
riches,  ease,  tranquillity,  fame,  integrity,  knowledge.  Every- 
thing is  marked  at  a settled  price.  Our  time,  our  labor, 
our  ingenuity,  is  so  much  ready  money  we  are  to  lay  out  to 
the  best  advantage.  Examine,  compare,  choose,  reject,  but 
stand  to  your  own  judgment,  and  do  not,  like  children,  when 
you  have  purchased  one  thing,  repine  that  jou  do  not  possess 
another  which  you  did  not  purchase.  Such  is  the  force  of 

1* 


10 


AGAINST  INCONSISTENCY 


well-regulated  industry,  that  a steady  and  vigorous  exertion 
of  our  faculties,  directed  to  one  end,  will  generally  insure 
success.  Would  you,  for  instance,  be  rich?  Do  you  think 
that  single  point  worth  sacrificing  everything  else  to?  You 
may  then  be  rich.  Thousands  have  become  so  from  the 
lowest  beginnings,  by  toil  and  patient  diligence,  and  atten- 
tion to  the  minutest  articles  of  expense  and  profit ; but  you 
must  give  up  the  pleasures  of  leisure,  of  a vacant  mind,  of  a 
free,  unsuspicious  temper.  If  you  preserve  your  integrity, 
it  must  be  a coarse-spun  and  vulgar  honesty.  Those  high 
and  lofty  notions  of  morals  which  you  brought  with  you  from 
schools  must  be  considerably  lowered,  and  mixed  with  a 
baser  alloy  of  a jealous  and  worldly-minded  prudence.  You 
must  learn  to  do  hard,  if  not  unjust  things ; and  as  for  the 
nice  embarrassments  of  a delicate  and  ingenuous  spirit,  it  is 
necessary  for  you  to  get  rid  of  them  as  fast  as  possible.  You 
must  shut  your  heart  against  the  Muses,  and  be  content  to 
feed  your  understanding  with  plain  household  truths.  In 
short,  you  must  not  attempt  to  enlarge  your  ideas,  or  polish 
your  taste,  or  refine  your  sentiments ; but  keep  on  in  one 
beaten  track,  without  turning  aside  either  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left.  “ But  I cannot  submit  to  drudgery  like  this — I feel 
a spirit  above  it.”  ’Tis  well : be  above  it  then ; only  do  not 
repine  that  you  are  not  rich. 

Is  knowledge  the  pearl  of  price  ? That,  too,  may  be  pur- 
chased by  steady  application  and  long  solitary  hours  of  study 
and  reflection.  Bestow  these,  and  you  shall  be  wise.  <£  But,” 
says  the  man  of  letters,  u what  a hardship  is  it,  that  many  an 
illiterate  fellow,  who  cannot  construe  the  motto  of  the  arms 
on  his  coach,  shall  raise  a fortune  and  make  a figure,  while  I 
have  little  more  than  the  common  conveniences  of  life.”  Et 
tibi  magna  satis  ! — Was  it  in  order  to  raise  a fortune  that 
you  consumed  the  sprightly  hours  of  youth  in  study  and  re- 


IN  OUR  EXPECTATIONS. 


11 


,irement?  Was  it  to  be  rich  that  you  grew  pale  over  the 
midnight  lamp,  and  distilled  the  sweetness  from  the  Greek 
and  Roman  spring?  You  have,  then,  mistaken  your  path, 
and  ill  employed  your  industry.  “ What  reward  have  I then 
for  all  my  labors  ?”  What  reward  ! A large  comprehen- 
sive soul,  well  purged  from  vulgar  fears,  and  perturbations, 
and  prejudices,  able  to  comprehend  and  interpret  the  works  of 
man — of  God;  a rich,  flourishing,  cultivated  mind,  pregnant 
with  inexhaustible  stores  of  entertainment  and  reflection ; a 
perpetual  spring  of  fresh  ideas  ; and  the  conscious  dignity  of 
superior  intelligence.  Good  heaven  ! — and  what  reward  can 
you  ask  besides  ? 

“ But  is  it  not  some  reproach  upon  the  economy  of  Prov- 
idence that  such  a one,  who  is  a mean,  dirty  fellow,  should 
have  amassed  wealth  enough  to  buy  a nation  ?”  Not  in  the 
least.  He  made  himself  a mean  dirty  fellow  for  that  very 
end.  He  has  paid  his  health,  his  conscience,  his  liberty  for 
it ; and  will  you  envy  him  his  bargain  ? Will  you  hang 
your  head  and  blush  in  his  presence,  because  he  outshines 
you  in  equipage  and  show  ? Lift  up  your  brow  with  a noble 
confidence,  and  say  to  yourself,  “ I have  not  these  things,  it 
is  true  ; but  it  is  because  I have  not  sought,  because  I have 
not  desired  them.  It  is  because  I possess  something  better. 
I have  chosen  my  lot.  I am  content  and  satisfied.” 

You  are  a modest  man — you  love  quiet  and  independence, 
and  have  a delicacy  and  reserve  in  your  temper  which  ren- 
ders it  impossible  for  you  to  elbow  your  way  in  the  world, 
and  be  the  herald  of  youi:  own  merits.  Be  content,  then, 
with  a modest  retirement,  with  the  esteem  of  your  intimate 
friends,  with  the  praises  of  a blameless  heart,  and  a delicate 
ingenuous  spirit ; but  resign  the  splendid  distinctions  of  the 
world  to  those  who  can  better  scramble  for  them. 

The  man  whose  tender  sensibility  of  conscience,  and  strict 


12 


AGAINST  INCONSISTENCY 


regard  to  the  rules  of  morality,  makes  liim  scrupulous  and 
fearful  of  offending,  is  often  heard  to  complain  of  the  disad- 
vantages he  lies  under  in  every  path  of  honor  and  profit. 
“ Could  I hut  get  over  some  nice  points,  and  conform  to  the 
practice  and  opinion  of  those  about  me,  I might  stand  as  fair 
a chance  as  others  for  dignities  and  preferment.”  And  why 
can  you  not?  What  hinders  you  from  discarding  this 
troublesome  scrupulosity  of  yours  which  stands  so  grievously 
in  your  way  ? If  it  be  a small  thing  to  enjoy  a healthful 
mind,  sound  at  the  very  core,  that  does  not  shrink  from  the 
keenest  inspection,  inward  freedom  from  remorse  and  per- 
turbation, unsullied  whiteness  and  simplicity  of  manners,  a 
genuine  integrity,  u pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind,” — 
if  you  think  these  advantages  an  inadequate  recompense  for 
what  you  resign,  dismiss  your  scruples  this  instant,  and  be  a 
slave-merchant,  a director,  or — what  you  please.  If  these  be 
motives  too  weak,  break  off  by  times ; and  as  you  have  not 
spirit  to  assert  the  dignity  of  virtue,  be  wise  enough  not  to 
forego  the  emoluments  of  vice. 

I much  admire  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  in 
that  they  never  attempted,  as  our  moralists  often  do,  to  lowei 
the  tone  of  philosophy,  and  make  it  consistent  with  all  the  in 
dulgences  of  indolence  and  sensuality.  They  never  though! 
of  having  the  bulk  of  mankind  for  their  disciples,  but  kept 
themselves  as  distinct  as  possible  from  a worldly  life ; they 
plainly  told  men  what  sacrifices  were  required,  and  what  ad- 
vantages they  were  which  might  be  expected. 

Si  virtus  hoc  una  potest  dare,  fortis  omissis 

Hoc  age  deliciis. 

If  you  would  be  a philosopher,  these  are  the  terms.  You 
must  do  thus  and  thus.  There  is  no  other  way.  If  not,  go 
and  be  one  of  the  vulgar. 


IN  OUR  EXPECTATIONS. 


13 


There  is  no  one  quality  gives  so  much  dignity  to  a char- 
acter as  consistency  of  conduct.  Even  if  a man’s  pursuits 
be  wrong  and  unjustifiable,  yet  if  they  are  prosecuted  with 
steadiness  and  vigor,  we  cannot  withhold  our  admiration. 
The  most  characteristic  mark  of  a great  mind  is  to  choose 
some  one  important  object  and  pursue  it  through  life.  It  was 
this  made  Caesar  a great  man.  His  object  was  ambition  ; he 
pursued  it  steadily,  and  was  always  ready  to  sacrifice  to  it 
every  interfering  passion  or  inclination. 

There  is  a pretty  passage  in  one  of  Lucian’s  dialogues, 
where  Jupiter  complains  to  Cupid  that  though  he  has  had  so 
many  intrigues,  he  was  never  sincerely  beloved.  “In  order 
to  be  loved,”  says  Cupid,  “ you  must  lay  aside  your  aegis  and 
your  thunderbolts,  and  you  must  curl  your  hair  and  place  a 
garland  on  your  head,  and  walk  with  a soft  step,  and  assume 
a winning  obsequious  deportment.”  “But,”  replied  Jupiter, 
" I am  not  willing  to  resign  so  much  of  my  dignity.”  “ Then,” 
returns  Cupid,  “ leave  off  desiring  to  be  loved.” — He  wanted 
to  be  Jupiter  and  Adonis  at  the  same  time. 


€jjt  tfnrjwntmtKtB  nf  tljB  tBijaril  MnlBntt,  mill  ^I'jiloits 
nf  1{jb  laiijjjjt  |ir  Suiustnj. 


FROM  THE  t:CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE,”  BY  THOMSON. 

The  sequestered  mansion  in  which,  either  in  reality  or  in  imagi- 
nation, we  may  be  reading  this  poem,  must  not  itself  be  a Castle  of  In- 
dolence ; yet  everybody  delights  occasionally  in  being  indolent,  or  in 
fancying  that  he  shall  have  a right  to  be  so  some  day  or  other.  We 
please  ourselves  with  pictures  of  perfect  rest,  even  when  we  can  nei- 
ther enjoy  them,  nor  mean  to  do  so.  We  would  fain  have  the  luxury 
without  the  harm  or  the  expense ; there  is  a corner  in  every  one’s 
mind  in  which  we  nestle  to  it;  and  hence  the  enjoyment  of  such 
poems  as  this  by  Thomson,  in  which  every  delight  of  the  kind  is  set 
before  us.  The  second  part  is  not  so  good  as  the  first.  Thomson 
found  himself  more  inspired  by  the  vice  than  by  its  consequences. 
And  we  secretly  feel  as  he  and  his  fellow-idlers  did,  when  Sir  In- 
dustry first  interrupted  them.  We  resent  the  termination  of  our  pleas- 
ures, and  look  upon  the  reforming  knight  as  a dull  and  meddling 
fellow.  Why  should  he  wake  us  from  such  a pleasant  dream  I On 
reflection,  however,  we  see  that  the  fault  is  not  his,  but  our  own ; 
that  we  should  wake  up  in  a far  worse  manner,  if  Sir  Industry  did  not 
rouse  us.  There  is  beautiful  poetry  in  the  second  part,  even  exqui- 
site indolent  bits,  or  places  at  least  in  wdiicli  we  might  be  indolent;  in 
fine,  we  congratulate  ourselves  on  our  virtue,  and  begin,  like  the 
knight,  to  abuse  the  old  rascally  wizard  who  had  pretended  to  make 
us  his  victims.  We  have  retained  the  best  passages  in  both  parts,  and 


ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE . 15 


fhe  best  only ; not  without  linking  them  in  such  a manner  as  the 
stanzas  luckily  enabled  us  to  do,  with  no  violation  to  a syllable,  ex- 
cept the  occasional  loss  of  connection  with  a rhyme.  Alteration  was 
out  of  the  question ; every  word\etained  is  the  poet’s,  and  no  other 
is  admitted. 

Thomson,  who  was  once  seen  eating  a peach  off  a tree  with  his 
hands  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  was  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  writing 
the  Castle  of  Indolence; — a fitting  period  ! We  are  not  to  suppose  he 
did  nothing  between  whiles.  He  was  both  very  indolent  and  very  in- 
dustrious, for  his  mind  was  always  at  work  on  his  enjoyments,  as  the 
world  has  good  reason  to  know  in  possessing  his  Seasons.  And  he 
wrote  tragedies  besides,  not  so  good,  but  full  of  humane  and  generous 
sentiments,  with  passages  worth  picking  out.  He  had  the  luck  to  be 
made  easy  in  his  circumstances  by  men  in  power  before  it  was  too 
late  for  him  to  enjoy  what  he  made  others  enjoy ; so  he  lived  at  Rich- 
mond, singing  like  one  of  the  birds  whom  he  so  justly  describes  as 
singing  the  better,  the  better  they  are  fed ; that  is  to  say,  if  the  genius 
of  singing  be  in  them ; for  this  implies  the  necessity  of  giving  vent 
to  it. 

“ What  you  observe  concerning  the*  pursuit  of  poetry/’  says  he,  in 
a letter  to  a friend,  “ so  far  engaged  in  it  as  I am,  is  certainly  just. 
Besides,  let  him  quit  it  who  can,  and  ‘ erit  mihi  magnus  Apollo/  or 
something  as  great.  A true  genius,  like  light,  must  be  beaming  forth, 
as  a false  one  is  an  incurable  disease.  One  would  not,  however,  climb 
Parnassus,  any  more  than  your  mortal  hills,  to  fix  forever  on  the  bar- 
ren top.  No ; it  is  some  little  dear  retirement  in  the  vale  below  that 
gives  the  right  relish  to  the  prospect,  which,  without  that,  is  nothing 
but  enchantment ; and  though  pleasing  for  some  time,  at  last  leaves 
us  in  a desert.  The  great  fat  doctor  of  Bath*  told  me  that  poets 
should  be  kept  poor,  the  more  to  animate  their  genius.  This  is  like 
the  cruel  custom  of  putting  a bird’s  eye  out  that  it  may  sing  the 
sweeter ; but,  surely,  they  sing  sweetest  amid  the  luxuriant  woods, 
while  the  full  spring  blossoms  around  them.” 

Beautifully  said  is  this,  and  well  reasoned  too.  It  is  a final  answer 
to  all  the  grudgers  of  a poet’s  comfort.  Singing,  it  is  true,  might 
and  does  console  him  under  any  circumstances ; but  why  should  we 

* Supposed  to  be  Dr.  Cheyne,  who  got  fat  and  melancholy  with  good  living, 
whereas  Thomson  got  fat  and  morry ; for  Cheyne  was  an  owl,  not  a singing  bird. 


16  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 


wish  him  to  be  consoled,  when  lie  can  be  made  happy  1 as  happy  as 
he  would  make  ourselves  ? 

Thomson  is  a greater  poet  than  the  style  of  the  Seasons  would  lead 
us  to  suppose.  lie  was  too  modest  to  approach  Nature  in  the  garb 
of  his  natural  simplicity,  so  he  put  on  a sort  of  court  suit  of  classical- 
ity,  stuffed  out  with  “ taffeta  phrases”  and  “ silken  terms  precise,” 
But  the  true  genius  is  underneath.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in 
it  of  a heavy  temperament,  and  of  the  “ indolence”  to  which  it  inclined 
him.  He  had  a warm  heart  in  a gross  body.  The  Castle  of  Indolence 
has  been  thought  his  best  poem,  because  the  style  was  imitated  from 
that  of  Spenser.  It  certainly  contains  as  good  poetry  as  any  he  wrote  j 
and  the  tone  of  Spenser  is  charmingly  imitated,  with  an  arch  but  de- 
lighted reverence. 


CANTO  I. 

The  castle  higlit  of  Indolence, 

And  its  false  luxury ; 

Where  for  a little  time,  alas! 

We  liv’d  right  jollily. 

0 MORTAL  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil, 

Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate  ; 

That,  like  an  emmet,  thou  must  ever  moil, 

Is  a sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date ; 

And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 

For  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and  wail, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and  late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  a heavier  bale, 

Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a river’s  side, 

With  woody  hill  o’er  hill  encompass’d  round, 

A most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 

Than  whom  a fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found. 

It  was,  I ween,  a lovely  spot  of  ground : 

And  there,  a season  atween  J une  and  May, 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  17 


Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half  embrown’d. 

A listless  climate  made  ; where,  sooth  to  say, 

No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  ev’n  for  play. 

Was  naught  around  but  images  of  rest, 

Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between, 

And  flowery  beds  that  slumberous  influence  kest, 

From  poppies  breath’d,  and  beds  of  pleasant  green, 

Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 

Meantime  unnumber’d  glittering  streamlets  play’d, 

And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen ; 

That,  as  they  bicker’d  through  the  sunny  glade, 

Though  restless  still  themselves,  a lulling  murmur  made. 

Join’d  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 

Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 

And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  distant  hills, 

And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  : 

And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail, 

Or  stock-doves  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 

That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale ; 

And  still  a coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep ; 

Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 

A sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood ; 

Where  naught  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to  move, 

As  Idless  fancy’d  in  her  dreaming  mood ; 

And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  ay  waving  to  and  fro, 

Sent  forth  a sleepy  horror  through  the  blood ; 

And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below, 

The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely  heard,  to  flow. 


18  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE . 


A pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was, 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 

Forever  flushing  round  a summer  sky  ; 

There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 

And  the  calm  pleasures  always  hover’d  nigh ; 

But  whate’er  smack’d  of  noyance  and  unrest 
Was  far,  far  off  expell’d  from  this  delicious  nest. 

The  landskip  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease, 

Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 

Close  hid  his  castle  ’mid  embowering  trees, 

That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus  bright, 

And  made  a kind  of  chequer’d  day  and  night. 

*###*# 

While  solitude  and  perfect  silence  reign’d, 

So  that  to  think  you  dreamt  you  almost  was  constrain’d. 

As  when  a shepherd  of  the  Hebrid  Isles, 

Plac’d  far  amid  the  melancholy  main, 

(Whether  it  be  lone  fancy  him  beguiles, 

Or  that  aerial  beings  sometimes  deign 
To  stand  embodied  to  our  senses  plain) 

Sees  on  the  naked  hill  or  valley  low, 

The  whilst  in  ocean  Phoebus  dips  his  wain, 

A vast  assembly  moving  to  and  fro, 

Then  all  at  once  in  air  dissolves  the  wondrous  show. 

The  doors  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming  bell, 

Ne  cursed  knocker  ply’d  by  villain’s  hand, 

Self-opened  into  halls,  where  who  can  tell 
What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  expand, 

The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  land? 

Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  on  carpets  carpets  spread 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  19 


And  couches  stretch’d  around  in  seemly  band, 

And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head ; 

So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full-swelling  bed. 

And  everywhere  huge  cover’d  tables  stood, 

With  wines  high-flavor’d  and  rich  viands  crown’d  ; 
Whatever  sprightly  juice  or  tasteful  food 
On  the  green  bosom  of  this  earth  are  found, 

And  all  old  ocean  genders  in  his  round : 

Some  hand  unseen  these  silently  display’d, 

E’en  undemanded  by  a sight  or  sound ; 

You  need  but  wish,  and,  instantly  obey’d, 

Fair  rang’d  the  dishes  rose,  and  thick  the  glasses  play’d. 

The  rooms  with  costly  tapestry  were  hung, 

Where  was  inwoven  many  a gentle  tale, 

Such  as  of  old  the  rural  poets  sung, 

Or  of  Arcadian  or  Sicilian  val6 ; 

Reclining  lovers  in  the  lonely  dale 

Pour’d  forth  at  large  the  sweetly  tortur’d  heart, 

Or,  sighing  tender  passion,  swell’d  the  gale, 

And  taught  charm’d  Echo  to  resound  their  smart, 

While  flocks,  woods,  streams,  around,  repose  and  peace  impart. 

Each  sound,  too,  here  to  languishment  inclin’d, 

Lull’d  the  weak  bosom,  and  induc’d  to  ease ; 

Aerial  music  in  the  warbling  wind, 

At  distance  rising  oft,  by  small  degrees 
Nearer  and  nearer  came,  till  o’er  the  trees 
It  hung,  and  breath’d  such  soul-dissolving  airs 
As  did,  alas  ! with  soft  perdition  please  : 

Entangled  deep  in  its  enchanting  snares, 

The  listening  heart  forgot  all  duties  and  all  cares. 


‘20  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 


A certain  music,  never  known  before,* 

Here  lull’d  the  pensive  melancholy  mind  ; 

Full  easily  obtain’d.  Behooves  no  more, 

But  sidelong  to  the  gently-waving  wind, 

To  lay  the  well-tun’d  instrument  reclin’d, 

From  which,  with  airy-flying  fingers  light, 

Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  refin’d, 

The  god  of  winds  drew  sounds  of  deep  delight, 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  the  harp  of  iEolus  it  hight. 

Ah  me  ! what  hand  can  touch  the  string  so  fine  ? 

Who  up  the  lofty  diapason  roll 

Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs  divine, 

Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul  ? 

Now,  rising  love  they  fann’d ; now,  pleasing  dole 
They  breath’d  in  tender  musings  through  the  heart ; 
And  now  a graver  sacred  strain  they  stole, 

As  when  seraphic  hands  an  hymn  impart ; 
Wild-warbling  Nature  all,  above  the  reach  of  art ! 

Such  the  gay  splendor,  the  luxurious  state 
Of  Caliphs  old,  who,  on  the  Tigris  shore, 

In  mighty  Bagdat,  populous  and  great, 

Held  their  bright  court,  where  was  of  ladies  store, 
And  verse,  love,  music,  still  the  garland  wore. 

When  sleep  was  coy,  the  bard,  in  waiting  there, 
Cheer’d  the  lone  midnight  wdth  the  Muses’  lore : 
Composing  music  bade  his  dreams  be  fair, 

And  music  lent  new  gladness  to  the  morning  air. 

Near  the  pavilions  where  we  slept  still  ran 
Soft  tinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell, 

And  sobbing  waters  sigh’d,  and  oft  began 
(So  work’d  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell, 

* The  iEolian  harp,  just  then  invented. 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  21 


As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell ; 

At  doors  and  windows  threatening  seem’d  to  call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest  growling  fell ; 

Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all, 
Where  sweeter  grew  our  sleep,  secure  in  mossy  halL 

One  great  amusement  of  our  household  was. 

In  a huge  crystal  magic  globe  to  spy. 

Still  as  you  turn’d  it,  all  things  that  do  pass 
Upon  this  ant-hill  earth ; where  constantly 
Of  idly-busy  men  the  restless  fry 
Run  bustling  to  and  fro  with  foolish  haste 
In  search  of  pleasures  vain  that  from  them  fly, 

Or  which  obtain’d  the  caitiffs  dare  not  taste : 

When  nothing  is  enjoy’d,  can  there  be  greater  waste? 

Of  vanity  the  mirror  this  was  call’d. 

Here  you  a muckworm  of  the  town  might  see 
At  his  dull  desk,  amid  his  ledgers  stall’d, 

Ate  up  with  carking  care  and  penurie, 

Most  like  to  carcase  parch’d  on  gallows  tree, 

“ A penny  saved  is  a penny  got 

Firm  to  this  scoundrel-maxim  keepeth  he, 

Ne  of  its  rigor  will  he  bate  a jot, 

Till  it  has  quench’d  his  fire  and  banished  his  pot. 

Strait  from  the  filth  of  this  low  grub,  behold ! 
Comes  fluttering  forth  a gaudy  spendthrift  heir, 

All  glossy  gay,  enamell’d  all  with  gold, 

The  silly  tenant  of  the  summer  air. 

In  folly  lost,  of  nothing  takes  he  care ; 

Pimps,  lawyers,  stewards,  harlots,  flatterers  vile, 
And  thieving  tradesmen  him  among  them  share ; 
His  father’s  ghost  from  Limbo  Lake  the  while 
Sees  this,  which  more  damnation  doth  upon  him  pile. 


22  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 


Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  place, 

There  was  a man  of  special  grave  remark  ;* 

A certaiu  tender  gloom  o’erspread  his  face, 

Pensive,  not  sad  ; in  thought  involv’d,  not  dark ; 

As  soot  this  man  would  sing  as  morning  lark, 

And  teach  the  noblest  morals  of  the  heart ; 

But  these  his  talents  were  yburied  stark  j 
Of  the  fine  stores  he  nothing  would  impart, 

Which  or  boon  Nature  gave,  or  nature-painting  Art. 

To  noontide  shades  incontinent  he  ran, 

Where  purls  the  brook  with  sleep-inviting  sound, 

Or  when  Dan  Sol  to  slope  his  wheels  began, 

Amid  the  broom  he  bask’d  him  on  the  ground, 

Where  the  wild  thyme  and  camomil  are  found ; 

There  would  he  linger,  till  the  latest  ray 
Of  light  sate  trembling  on  the  welkin’s  bound ; 

Then  homeward  through  the  twilight  shadows  stray 
Sauntering  and  slow : so  had  he  passed  many  a day. 

Yet  not  in  thoughtless  slumber  were  they  past; 

For  oft  the  heavenly  fire,  that  lay  conceal’d 
Beneath  the  sleeping  embers,  mounted  fast, 

And  all  its  native  light  anew  reveal’d. 

Oft  as  he  travers’d  the  cerulean  field, 

And  mark’d  the  clouds  that  drove  before  the  wind 
Ten  thousand  glorious  systems  would  he  build, 

Ten  thousand  great  ideas  fill’d  his  mind ; 

But  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  no  trace  behind 

With  him  was  sometimes  join’d  in  silent  walk, 
(Profoundly  silent,  for  they  never  spoke,) 

* Who  this  person  was,  does  not  appear  to  have  been  discov*  **A. 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  23 


One  shier  still,*  who  quite  detested  talk ; 

Oft  stung  by  spleen,  at  once  away  he  broke 
To  groves  of  pine  and  broad  o’ershadowing  oak  ; 

There,  inly  thrill’d,  he  wander’d  all  alone, 

And  on  himself  his  pensive  fury  wroke, 

Ne  never  utter’d  word  save  when  first  shone 
The  glittering  star  of  eve — “ Thank  Heaven,  the  day  is  done  F 

Here  lurk’d  a wretch  who  had  not  crept  abroad 
For  forty  years,  ne  face  of  mortal  seen ; 

In  chamber  brooding  like  a loathly  toad, 

And  sure  his  linen  was  not  very  clean ; 

Through  secret  loop-holes  that  had  practis’d  been 
Near  to  his  bed,  his  dinner  vile  he  took ; 

Unkempt  and  rough,  of  squalid  face  amd  mien, 

Our  Castle’s  shame ; whence,  from  his  filthy  nook, 

We  drove  the  villain  out,  for  fitter  lair  to  look. 

One  day  there  chaunc’d  into  these  hills  to  rove 
A joyous  youth.f  who  took  you  at  first  sight; 

Him  the  wild  wave  of  pleasure  hither  drove 
Before  the  sprightly  tempest  tossing  light ; 

Certes,  he  was  a most  engaging  wight, 

Of  social  glee,  and  wit  humane  tho’  keen, 

Turning  the  night  to  day  and  day  to  night ; 

For  him  the  merry  bells  had  rung  I ween, 

If  in  this  nook  of  quiet  bells  had  ever  been. 

But  not  e’en  pleasure  to  excess  is  good ; 

What  most  elates,  then  sinks  the  soul  as  low ; 

* Supposed  to  be  Armstrong. 

t Probably  the  author’s  friend  Patterson,  his  deputy  in  the  office 
of  Surveyor-General  of  the  Leeward  Islands. 


24  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 

When  spring-tide  joy  pours  in  with  copious  flood, 

The  higher  still  th’  exulting  billows  flow, 

The  farther  back  again  they  flagging  go, 

And  leave  us  grovelling  on  the  dreary  shore. 

Taught  by  this  son  of  Joy,  we  found  it  so, 

Who,  whilst  he  staid,  kept  in  a gay  uproar 
Our  madden’d  Castle  all,  the  abode  of  Sleep  no  more. 

As  when  in  prime  of  J une  a burnish’d  fly, 

Sprung  from  the  meads,  o’er  which  he  sweeps  along, 
Cheer’d  by  the  breathing  bloom  and  vital  sky, 

Tunes  up  amid  these  airy  halls  his  song, 

Soothing  at  first  the  gay  reposing  throng  ; 

And  oft  he  sips  their  bowl ; or,  nearly  drown’d, 

He,  thence  recovering,  drives  their  beds  among, 

And  scares  their  tender  sleep  with  trump  profound, 
Then  out  again  he  flies  to  wing  his  mazy  round. 

Another  guest  there  was  of  sense  refin’d,* 

Who  felt  each  worth,  for  every  worth  he  had ; 

Serene,  yet  warm  ; humane,  yet  firm  his  mind  ; 

As  little  touch’d  as  any  man’s  with  bad  : 

Him  through  their  inmost  walks  the  Muses  lad, 

To  him  the  sacred  love  of  Nature  lent, 

And  sometimes  would  he  make  our  valley  glad  ; 

When  as  we  found  he  would  not  here  be  pent, 

To  him  the  better  sort  this  friendly  message  sent— 

u Come,  dwell  with  us,  true  son  of  Virtue  ! come  ; 

But  if,  .alas  ! we  cannot  thee  persuade 
To  lie  content  beneath  our  peaceful  dome 
Ne  ever  more  to  quit  our  quiet  glade. 


Lord  Lyttleton. 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY . 25 


Yet  when  at  last  thy  toils,  but  ill  apaid, 

Shall  dead  thy  fire,  and  damp  its  heavenly  spark, 

Thou  wilt  be  glad  to  seek  the  rural  shade, 

There  to  indulge  the  Muse,  and  Nature  mark ; 

We  then  a lodge  for  thee  will  rear  in  Hagley  Park.” 

Here  whilom  ligg’d  th’  Esopus  of  the  age,^ 

But  call’d  by  Fame,  in  soul  yprieked  deep, 

A noble  pride  restor’d  him  to  the  stage, 

And  rous’d  him  like  a giant  from  his  sleep. 

E’en  from  his  slumbers  we  advantage  reap  : 

With  double  force  th’  enliven’d  scene  he  wakes, 

Yet  quits  not  Nature’s  bounds.  He  knows  to  keep 
Each  due  decorum.  Now  the  heart  he  shakes, 

And  now  with  well-urged  sense  th’  enlightened  judgment  takes. 

A bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems,! 

Who  void  of  envy,  guile,  or  lust  of  gain, 

On  Virtue  still,  and  Nature’s  pleasing  themes, 

Pour’d  forth,  his  unpremeditated  strain  ; 

The  world  forsaking  with  a calm  disdain, 

Here  laugh’d  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat ; 

Here  quail’d  encircled  by  the  joyous  train, 

Oft  moralizing  sage  ; his  ditty  sweet 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeat. 

Full  oft  by  holy  feet  our  ground  was  trod  ; 

Of  clerks  good  plenty  here  you  mote  espy  ; 

A little,  round,  fat,  oily  man  of  God,! 

Was  one  I chiefly  mark’d  among  the  fry  : 

He  had  a roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 

* Quin,  the  actor. 

f Thomson  himself.  All  but  the  first  line  of  this  stanza  is  under- 
stood to  have  been  written  by  a friend. 

f The  Rev.  Mr.  Murdoch,  the  poet’s  first  biographer. 

2 


26  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE \ 


And  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 

If  a tight  damsel  chanc'd  to  trippen  by  ; 

Which  when  observ’d,  he  shrunk  into  his  mew, 

And  strait  would  recollect  his  piety  anew. 

Nor  be  forgot  a tribe  who  minded  naught 
(Old  inmates  of  the  place)  but  state  affairs  ; 

They  look’d,  perdie,  as  if  they  deeply  thought, 

And  on  their  brow  sat  every  nation’s  cares. 

The  world  by  them  is  parcel’d  out  in  shares. 

When  in  the  Hall  of  Smoke  they  congress  hold, 
And  the  sage  berry  sun-burnt  Mocha  bears 
Has  clear’d  their  inward  eye,  then  smoke-enroll’d, 
Their  oracles  break  forth,  mysterious  as  of  old. 

Here  languid  beauty  kept  her  pale-fac’d  court : 
Bevies  of  dainty  dames  of  high  degree 
From  every  quarter  hither  made  resort, 

Where,  from  gross  mortal  care  and  business  free, 
They  lay  pour’d  out,  in  ease  and  luxury : 

Or  should  they  a vain  show  of  work  assume, 

Alas  ! and  well  a-day  ! what  can  it  be  ? 

To  knot,  to  twist,  to  range  the  vernal  bloom  ; 

But  far  is  cast  the  distaff,  spinning-wheel,  and  loom. 

Their  only  labor  was  to  kill  the  time  ; 

And  labor  dire  it  is,  and  weary  woe : 

They  sit,  they  loll,  turn  o’er  some  idle  rhyme, 

Then,  rising  sudden,  to  the  glass  they  go, 

Or  saunter  forth  with  tottering  step  and  slow  : 

This  soon  too  rude  an  exercise  they  find  ; 

Strait  on  the  couch  their  limbs  again  they  throw  ; 
Where  hours  and  hours  they  sighing  lie  reclin’d, 
And  court  the  vapory  god,  soft  breathing  in  the  wind. 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  27 


Now  must  I mark  the  villanywe  found  ; 

But  ah  ! too  late,  as  shall  eftsoons  be  shown. 

A place  here  was,  deep,  dreary,  underground, 

Where  still  our  inmates,  when  unpleasing  grown, 

Diseas’d  and  loathsome,  privily  were  thrown. 

Far  from  the  light  of  heaven,  they  languish’d  there 
Unpitied,  uttering  many  a bitter  groan  : 

For  of  these  wretches  taken  was  no  care  ; 

Fierce  fiends  and  hags  of  hell  their  only  nurses  were. 

*Alas ! the  change  ! from  scenes  of  joy  and  rest, 

To  this  dark  den,  where  sickness  toss’d  alway. 

Here  Lethargy,  with  deadly  sleep  opprest, 

Stretch’d  on  his  back,  a mighty  lubbard,  lay, 

Heaving  his  sides,  and  snored  night  and  day. 

To  stir  him  from  his  traunce  it  was  not  eath  ; 

And  his  half-open’d  eyne  he  shut  straitway ; 

He  led,  I wot,  the  softest  way  to  death, 

And  taught  withouten  pain  and  strife  to  yield  the  breath. 

Of  limbs  enormous,  but  withal  unsound, 

Soft-swol’n  and  pale,  here  lay  the  Hydropsy : 

Unwieldy  man  ! with  belly  monstrous  round, 

Forever  fed  with  watery  supply : 

For  still  he  drank,  and  yet  he  still  was  dry. 

And  moping  here  did  Hypochondria  sit, 

Mother  of  Spleen,  in  robes  of  various  dye, 

Who  vexed  was  fall  oft  with  ugly  fit ; 

And  some  her  frantic  deem’d,  and  some  her  deem’d  a wit. 

A lady  proud  she  was,  of  ancient  blood, 

Yet  oft  her  fear  her  pride  made  crouchen  low ; 

* These  four  concluding  stanzas  of  Canto  I.  were  written  by  Arm- 
strong. 


28  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 


She  felt,  or  fancied,  in  her  flattering  mood, 

All  the  diseases  which  the  spittles  know, 

And  sought  all  physic  which  the  shops  bestow, 

And  still  new  leeches  and  new  drugs  would  try, 

Her  humor  ever  wavering  to  and  fro  ; 

For  sometimes  she  would  laugh,  and  sometimes  cry, 
Then  sudden  waxed  wroth,  and  all  she  knew  not  why. 

Fast  by  her  side  a listless  maiden  pin’d, 

With  aching  head,  and  squeamish  heart-burnings ; 
Pale,  bloated,  cold,  she  seem’d  to  hate  mankind, 

Yet  lov’d  in  secret  all  forbidden  things. 

And  here  the  Tertian  shakes  his  chilling  wings : 

The  sleepless  Gout  here  counts  the  crowing  cocks  ; 
A wolf  now  gnaws  him,  now  a serpent  stings : 
Whilst  Apoplexy  cramm’d  Intemperance  knocks 
Down  to  the  ground  at  once,  as  butcher  felleth  ox. 


CANTO  II. 


The  Knight  of  Arts  and  Industry, 
And  his  achievements  fair, 

That  by  his  Castle’s  overthrow 
Secur’d  and  crowned  were. 


ESCAP’D  the  Castle  of  the  Sire  of  Sin, 

Ah ! where  shall  I so  sweet  a dwelling  find  ? 
For  all  around  without,  and  all  within, 

Nothing  save  what  delightful  was  and  kind, 

Of  goodness  savoring  and  a tender  mind, 

E’er  rose  to  view : but  now  another  strain 
Of  doleful  note,  alas  ! remains  behind ; 

I now  must  sing  of  pleasure  turn’d  to  pain, 

And  of  the  false  enchanter  Indolence  complain. 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGIIT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  29 


Is  there  no  patron  to  protect  the  Muse, 

And  fence  for  her  Parnassus’  barren  soil? 

To  every  labor  its  reward  accrues, 

And  they  are  sure  of  bread  who  swink  and  moil  j 
But  a fell  tribe  th’  Aonian  hive  despoil, 

As  ruthless  wasps  oft  rob  the  painful  bee : 

Thus  while  the  laws  not  guard  that  noblest  toil, 

Ne  for  the  Muses  other  meed  decree, 

They  praised  are  alone,  and  starve  right  merrily. 

I care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny ; 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature’s  grace ; 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  facf  ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve  : 

Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  : 

Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave. 

Come  then,  my  Muse  ! and  raise  a bolder  song ; 
Come,  lig  no  more  upon  the  bed  of  sloth, 

Dragging  the  lazy  languid  line  along, 

Fond  to  begin,  but  still  to  finish  loath, 

Thy  half-wit  trolls  aL  eaten  by  the  moth ; 

Arise,  and  sing  that  generous  imp  of  fame, 

Who  with  the  sons  of  Softness  nobly  wroth, 

To  sweep  away  this  human  lumber  came, 

Or  in  a chosen  few  to  rouse  the  slumbering  flame. 

Th^ tidings  reach’d  to  where,  in  quiet  hall, 

The  good  old  knight  enjoy’d  well-earnt  repose. 

“ Come,  come,  Sir  Knight,  thy  children  on  thee  call : 
Come  save  us  yet,  ere  ruin  round  us  close, 


30  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 

The  demon  Indolence  thy  toil  o’erthrows.” 

On  this  the  noble  color  stain’d  his  cheeks, 

Indignant,  glowing  thro’  the  whitening  snows 
Of  venerable  eld  ; his  eye  full-speaks 
His  ardent  soul,  and  from  his  couch  at  once  he  breaks. 

I will  (he  cried)  so  help  me,  God  ! destroy 
That  villain  Archimage. — His  page  then  strait 
He  to  him  called,  a fiery-footed  boy, 

Benempt  Dispatch.  “ My  steed  be  at  the  gate  ; 

My  bard  attend  ; quick,  bring  the  net  of  Fate.” 

This  net  was  twisted  by  the  Sisters  three, 

Which  when  once  cast  o’er  hardened  wretch,  too  late 
Bepentance  comes  ; replevy  cannot  be 
From  the  strong  iron  grasp  of  vengeful  Destiny. 

He  came,  the  bard,  a little  Druid-wight, 

Of  wither’d  aspect ; but  his  eye  was  keen, 

With  sweetness  mix’d.  In  russet  gown  bedight, 

As  is  his  sister  of  the  copses  green, 

He  crept  along,  unpromising  of  mien. 

Gross  he  who  judges  so.  His  soul  was  fair, 

Bright  as  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen. 

True  comeliness,  which  nothing  can  impair, 

Dwells  in  the  mind  ; all  else  is  vanity  and  glare. 

“ Come”  (quoth  the  knight),  u a voice  has  reach’d  mine  ear 
The  demon  Indolence  threats  overthrow 
To  all  that  to  mankind  is  good  and  dear  : 

Come,  Philomelus  ! let  us  instant  go, 

O’erturn  his  bowers,  and  lay  his  Castle  low 
Those  men,  those  wretched  men  ! who  will  be  slaves, 
Must  drink  a bitter  wrathful  cup  of  woe  ; 

But  some  there  be  thy  song,  as  from  their  graves, 

Shall  raise.  Thrice  happy  he  ! who  without  rigor  saves.” 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  31 


Thus  holding  high  discourse,  they  came  to  where 
The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade, 

Still  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare, 

In  witching  wise,  as  I before  have  said  ; 

But  when  he  saw,  in  goodly  gear  array’d, 

The  grave  majestic  knight  approaching  nigh, 

And  by  his  side  the  bard  so  sage  and  staid, 

His  countenance  fell ; yet  oft  his  anxious  eye 
Mark’d  them,  like  wily  fox  who  roosted  cock  doth  spy. 

Nathless,  with  feign’d  respect  he  bade  give  back 
The  rabble  rout,  and  welcom’d  them  full  kind  ; 

Struck  with  the  noble  twain,  they  were  not  slack 
His  orders  to  obey,  and  fall  behind. 

Then  he  resum’d  his  song,  and,  unconfin’d, 

Pour’d  all  his  music,  ran  thro’  all  his  strings  ; 

With  magic  dust  their  eyne  he  tries  to  blind, 

And  virtue’s  tender  airs  o’er  weakness  flings. 

What  pity  base  his  song,  who  so  divinely  sings  ! 

Elate  in  thought  he  counted  them  his  own, 

They  listen’d  so  intent  with  fix’d  delight ; 

But  they,  instead,  as  if  transmew’d  to  stone, 

Marvell’d  he  could  with  such  sweet  art  unite 
The  lights  and  shades  of  manners  wrong  and  right. 
Meantime  the  silly  crowd  the  charm  devour, 

Wide  pressing  to  the  gate.  Swift  on  the  knight 
He  darted  fierce  to  drag  him  to  his  bower, 

Who  back’ning  shunn’d  his  touch,  for  well  he  knew  his  power. 

As  in  throng’d  amphitheatre,  of  old, 

The  wary  lletiarius  trapp’d  his  foe, 

E’en  so  the  knight,  returning  on  him  bold, 

A t once  involv’d  him  in  the  net  of  woe, 


32 


ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE , 


Whereof  I mention  made  not  long  ago. 

Enrag’d  at  first,  he  scorn’d  so  weak  a jail, 

And  leapt,  and  flew,  and  flounced  to  and  fro  ; 

But  when  lie  found  that  nothing  could  avail, 

He  sat  him  felly  down,  and  gnaw’d  his  bitter  nail. 

Alarm’d,  th’  inferior  demons  of  the  place 
Rais’d  rueful  shrieks  and  hideous  yells  around  ; 

Black  stormy  clouds  deform’d  the  welkin’s  face, 

And  from  beneath  was  heard  a wailing  sound, 

As  of  infernal  sprights  in  cavern  bound  ; 

A solemn  sadness  every  creature  strook 
And  lightnings  flash’d,  and  horror  rock’d  the  ground  ; 
Huge  crowds  on  crowds  outpour’d  with  blemish’d  look, 
As  if  on  time’s  last  verge  this  frame  of  things  had  shook. 

Soon  as  the  sliort-liv’d  tempest  was  yspent, 

Steam’d  from  the  jaws  of  vext  Avernus’  hole, 

And  hush’d  the  hubbub  of  the  rabblement, 

Sir  Industry  the  first  calm  moment  stole. 
u There  must”  (he  cried),  u amid  so  vast  a shoal, 

Be  some  who  are  not  tainted  at  the  heart, 

Not  poison’d  quite  by  this  same  villain’s  bowl ; 

Come  then,  my  Bard  ! thy  heavenly  fire  impart ; 

Touch  soul  with  soul,  till  forth  the  latent  spirit  start.” 

The  bard  obey’d  ; and  taking  from  his  side, 

Where  it  in  seemly  sort  depending  hung, 

His  British  harp,  its  speaking  strings  he  try’d, 

The  which  with  skilful  touch  he  deftly  strung, 

Till  tinkling  in  clear  symphony  they  rung : 

Then,  as  he  felt  the  Muses  come  along, 

Light  o’er  the  chords  his  raptured  hand  he  flung, 

And  play’d  a prelude  to  his  rising  song ; 

The  whilst,  like  midnight  mute,  ten  thousands  round  him  throng. 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  33 


Thus  ardent  burst  his  strain — Ye  hapless  race  ! 
Dire-laboring  here  to  smother  Reason’s  raj, 

That  lights  our  Maker’s  image  in  our  face, 

And  gives  us  wide  o’er  earth  unquestion’d  sway, 

What  is  th’  ador’d  Supreme  Perfection,  say  ? 

What,  but  eternal  never-resting  soul, 

Almighty  power,  and  all-directing  day, 

By  whom  each  atom  stirs,  the  planets  roll  j 
Who  fills,  surrounds,  informs,  and  agitates  the  whole. 

u Is  not  the  field,  with  lively  culture  green, 

A sight  more  joyous  than  the  dead  morass? 

Do  not  the  skies  with  active  ether  clean 
And  fann’d  by  sprightly  Zephyrs,  far  surpass 
The  foul  November  fogs,  and  slumb’rous  mass 
With  which  sad  Nature  veils  her  drooping  face  ? 

Does  not  the  mountain-stream,  as  clear  as  glass, 
Gray-dancing  on,  the  putrid  poof  disgrace  ? 

The  same  in  all  holds  true,  but  chief  in  human  race. 

“ Had  unambitious  mortals  minded  naught 
But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear  away, 

Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  Dalliance  sought, 

Pleas’d  on  their  pillow  their  dull  heads  to  lay, 

Rude  Nature’s  state  had  been  our  state  to-day; 

No  cities  e’er  their  towery  fronts  had  rais’d, 

No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and  gay ; 

With  brother-brutes  the  human  race  had  graz’d ; 

None  e’er  had  soar’d  to  fame,  none  honor’d  been,  none  prais’d. 

“ Great  Homer’s  song  had  never  fir’d  the  breast 
To  thirst  of  glory  and  heroic  deeds  ; 

Sweet  Maro’s  muse,  sunk  in  inglorious  rest, 

Had  silent  slept  amid  the  Mincian  reeds : 

2* 


34  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE. 


The  wits  of  modern  time  had  told  their  beads, 

And  monkish  legends  been  their  only  strains ; 

Our  Milton’s  Eden  had  lain  wrapped  in  weeds, 

Our  Shakspeare  stroll’d  and  laugh’d  with  Warwick  swains, 
Ne  had  my  master  Spenser  charm’d  his  Mulla’s  plains. 

“But  should  to  fame  your  hearts  unfeeling  be, 

If  right  I read,  you  pleasure  all  require ; 

Then  hear  how  best  may  be  obtain’d  this  fee, 

How  best  enjoy’d  this  Nature’s  wide  desire. 

Toil,  and  be  glad ; let  industry  inspire 

Into  your  quicken’d  limbs  her  buoyant  breath ; 

Who  does  not  act,  is  dead:  absorpt  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  pride,  no  joy  he  hath  ; 

0 leaden-hearted  Men,  to  be  in  love  with  death ! 

“ 0 who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joys  of  health; 

Unclogg’d  the  body,  unobscur’d  the  mind  ; 

The  morning  rises  gay,  with  pleasing  stealth, 

The  temperate  evening  falls  serene  and  kind  ; 

In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  gladness  find ; 

See  ! how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the  meads, 

As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the  balmy  wind ; 

Ilampant  with  life,  their  joy  all  joy  exceeds ; 

Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this  dancing  pleasaunce 
breeds? 

u There  are,  I see,  who  listen  to  my  lay, 

Who  wretched  sigh  for  virtue,  but  despair. 

All  may  be  done,  (methinks  I hear  them  say,) 

E’en  death  despis’d,  by  generous  actions  fair  ; 

All  but  for  those  who  to  these  bowers  repair; 

Their  every  power  dissolv’d  in  luxury, 

To  quit  of  torpid  Sluggishness  the  lair, 


AND  EXPLOITS  OP  THE  KNIOIFi  SIR  INDUSTRY.  35 


And  from  the  powerful  arms  of  Sloth  get  free 
Tis  rising  from  the  dead — alas  ! — it  cannot  be ! 

'Would  you  then  learn  to  dissipate  the  band 
Of  these  huge  threatening  difficulties  dire, 

That  in  the  weak  man’s  way  like  lions  stand, 

His  soul  appall,  and  damp  his  rising  fire  ? 

Resolve,  resolve,  and  to  be  men  aspire. 

Exert  that  noble  privilege,  alone, 

Here  to  mankind  indulg’d  ; control  desire  ; 

Let  godlike  Reason,  from  her  sovereign  throne, 

Speak  the  commanding  word,  I will ! — and  it  is  done. 

u Heavens  ! can  you  then  thus  waste,  in  shameful  wise, 
Your  few  important  days  of  trial  here  ? 

Heirs  of  eternity ! yborn  to  rise 

Through  endless  states  of  being',  still  more  near 

To  bliss  approaching,  and  perfection  clear? 

Can  you  renounce  a fortune  so  sublime  ? 

Such  glorious  hopes,  your  backward  steps  to  steer, 

And  roll,  with  vilest  brutes,  through  mud  and  slime  ? 

No ! no !'  your  heaven-touch’d  hearts  disdain  the  sordid 
crime !” 


a Enough  ! enough  !”  they  cried.  Strait  from  the  crowd 
The  better  sort  on  wings  of  transport  fly ; 

As  when  amid  the  lifeless  summits  proud 
Of  Alpine  cliffs,  where  to  the  gelid  sky 
Snows  pil’d  on  snows  in  wintry  torpor  lie, 

The  rays  divine  of  vernal  Phoebus  play, 

Th’  awaken’d  heaps,  in  streamlets  from  on  high, 

Rous’d  into  action,  lively  leap  away, 

Glad  warbling  through  the  vales,  in  their  new  being  gay. 


36  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE \ 

But  far  the  greater  part  with  rage  inflam’d, 

Dire-mutter’d  curses,  and  blasphem’d  high  Jove. 

“Ye  sons  of  Hate!”  (they  bitterly  exclaim’d), 

“ What  brought  you  to  this  seat  of  peace  and  love  ? 

While  with  kind  Nature,  here  amid  the  grove, 

We  passed  the  harmless  sabbath  of  our  time, 

What  to  disturb  it  could,  fell  men,  emove 
Your  barbarous  hearts?  Is  happiness  a crime? 

Then  do  the  fiends  of  hell  rule  in  yon  heaven  sublime.’ 

“Ye  impious  wretches !”  (quoth  the  knight  in  wrath), 

“ Your  happiness  behold  !” — then  strait  a wand 
He  wav’d,  an  anti-magic  power  that  hath 
Truth  from  illusive  falsehood  to  command. 

Sudden  the  landscape  sinks  on  every  hand ; 

The  pure  quick  streams  are  marshy  puddles  found  ; 

On  baleful  heaths  the  groves  all  blacken’d  stand  j 
And  o’er  the  weedy,  foul,  abhorred  ground, 

Snakes,  adders,  toads,  each  loathsome  creature  crawls  around 

And  here  and  there,  on  trees  by  lightning  scath’d, 
Unhappy  wights,  who  loathed  life,  yhung ; 

Or  in  fresh  gore  and  recent  murder  bath’d, 

They  weltering  lay  ; or  else,  infuriate  flung 
Into  the  gloomy  flood,  while  ravens  sung 
The  funeral  dirge,  they  down  the  torrent  roll’d: 

These  by  distemper’d  blood  to  madness  stung, 

Had  doom’d  themselves  ; whence  oft,  when  night  con* 
troll’d 

The  world,  returning  hither  their  sad  spirits  howl’d. 

Attended  by  a glad  acclaiming  train 
Of  those  he  rescued  had  from  gaping  hell, 


AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  KNIGHT  SIR  INDUSTRY.  37 


Then  turn’d  the  knight,  and  to  his  hall  again 
Soft  pacing,  sought  of  Peace  the  mossy  cell ; 

Yet  down  his  cheeks  the  gems  of  pity  fell, 

To  see  the  helpless  wretches  that  remain’d, 

There  left  through  delves  and  deserts  dire  to  yell ; 
Amaz’d,  their  looks  with  pale  dismay  were  stain’d, 

And  spreading  wide  their  hands,  they  meek  repentance  feign’d 

But,  ah  ! their  scorned  day  of  grace  was  past ; 

For  (horrible  to  tell)  a desert  wild 

Before  them  stretch’d,  bare,  comfortless,  and  vast, 

With  gibbets,  bones,  and  carcases  defil’d. 

There  nor  trim  field  nor  lively  culture  smil’d, 

Nor  waving  shade  was  seen,  nor  mountain  fair  ; 

But  sands  abrupt  on  sands  lay  loosely  pil’d, 

Thro’  which  they  floundering  toil’d  with  painful  care, 
Whilst  Phoebus  smote  them  sore, # and  fir’d  the  cloudless  air. 

Then,  varying  to  a joyless  land  of  bogs, 

The  sadden’d  country  a gray  waste  appear’d, 

Where  naught  but  putrid  streams  and  noisome  fogs 
Forever  hung  on  drizzly  Auster’s  beard  ; 

Or  else  the  ground  by  piercing  Caurus  sear’d, 

Was  jagg’d  wutli  frost,  or  heap’d  with  glazed  snow : 

Thro’  these  extremes  a ceaseless  round  they  steer’d, 

By  cruel  fiends  still  hurried  to  and  fro, 

Gaunt  Beggary,  and  Scorn,  with  many  hell-hounds  moe. 

The  first  was  with  base  dunghill  rags  yclad, 

Tainting  the  gale  in  which  they  flutter’d  light; 

Of  morbid  hue,  his  features  sunk  and  sad ; 

His  hollow  eyne  shook  forth  a sickly  light ; 

And  o’er  his  lank  jaw-bone,  in  piteous  plight, 

His  black  rough  beard  was  matted  rank  and  vile ; 


38  ENCHANTMENTS  OF  THE  WIZARD  INDOLENCE . 


Direful  to  see  ! an  heart-appalling  sight ! 

Meantime  foul  scurf  and  blotches  him  defile, 

And  dogs,  where’er  he  went,  still  barked  all  the  while. 

The  other  was  a fell  despightful  fiend : 

Hell  holds  none  worse  in  baleful  bower  below  ; 

By  pride,  and  wit,  and  rage,  and  rancor,  keen’d  ; 

Of  man  alike,  if  good  or  bad,  the  foe  ; 

With  nose  upturn’d,  he  always  made  a show, 

As  if  he  smelt  some  nauseous  scent ; his  eye 
Was  cold  and  keen,  like  blast  from  boreal  snow, 

And  taunts  he  casten  forth  most  bitterly. 

Such  were  the  twain  that  off  drove  this  ungodly  fry. 

E’en  so  thro’  Brentford  town,  a town  of  mud, 

An  herd  of  bristly  swine  is  prick’d  along ; 

The  filthy  beasts,  that  never  chew  the  cud, 

Still  grunt,  and  squeak,  and  sing  their  troublous  song 
And  oft  they  plunge  themselves  the  mire  among ; 

But  aye  the  ruthless  driver  goads  them  on, 

And  aye,  of  barking  dogs  the  biter  throng 
Makes  them  renew  their  unmelodious  moan  ; 

Ne  ever  find  they  rest  from  their  unresting  fone 


Itoms  ht[  #ir  Hirjjurii  nit. 

NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED. 

These  stories,  with  the  exception  of  two,  compose  the  entire  set 
contributed  by  this  great  master  of  character  and  sentiment  to  the 
Tatler,  Spectator,  and  Guardian.  They  are  remarkable  for  going  to 
the  heart  of  their  subjects  with  a comprehensive  brevity ; and  are 
just  such  stories  as  a man  might  tell  over  his  wine  to  a party  of 
friends.  Addison’s  stories  are  of  a more  fanciful  sort,  and  more  ele- 
gant in  the  style  ; some  of  them  are  charming  ; but  they  are  pieces 
of  writing — these  are  relations.  They  have  all  the  warmth  as  well  as 
brevity  of  unpremeditated  accounts,  given  as  occasion  called  them 
forth.  Steele,  indeed,  may  be  said  to  have  always  talked,  rather 
than  written ; and  hence  the  beauties  as  well  as  defects  of  his  style, 
which  is  apt  to  be  too  carelessly  colloquial. 

Steele,  like  Fielding,  Smollett,  Goldsmith — in  fact,  like  almost  all 
our  most  entertaining  wits  and  novelists,  not  excepting  (on  a great  scale) 
Sir  Walter  Scott  himself — was  an  impulsive  and  imprudent  man,  not 
attentive  enough  to  his  outlays,  and  too  sanguine  about  his  income. 
He  warranted,  perhaps,  the  remonstrances  of  his  staider  friend  Ad- 
dison ; and  was  more  touched  than  comforted  by  them,  from  feeling 
that  they  were  useless.  The  remonstrances  (if  they  were  of  the  harsh 
and  practical  nature  they  are  said  to  have  been),  would  have  come 
with  less  ungraciousness  from  a more  genial  and  generous  man  ; that 
is  to  say,  supposing  such  a man  would  have  thought  them  advisable. 
Objections  to  men  like  Steele  come  indeed  with  grace  from  none  but 


40 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


generous  persons,  liable  to  his  temptations,  and  superior  to  them. 
Such  persons  have  made  such  objections,  though  not  unaccompanied 
with  assumptions  that  might  have  been  spared ; probably  in  conse- 
quence of  the  re-action  in  Steele’s  favor  in  the  writings  of  Ilazlitt 
and  others.  The  objections,  however,  deserve  to  be  respectfully  re- 
plied to ; and  the  just  reply,  we  think,  is,  that  you  must  consider 
every  writer  and  every  man  as  the  result  of  all  the  circumstances  that 
have  made  him  what  he  is,  bodily  and  mental,  and  then  judge  whether 
that  result  is  a gain  and  pleasure  to  the  world,  and  a compensation 
for  the  less  allowable  of  those  circumstances.  For  a man  cannot  be 
one  man  and  another  too ; cannot  be  Steele  and  Addison  both  ; at 
least  we  are  not  aware  that  any  such  person  has  been  met  with,  how- 
ever modified  the  varieties  of  their  like  may  be.  Would  you  have 
had  no  such  thing  as  Steele’s  imprudence,  and  been  content  to  lose 
the  Tatler  and  the  Guardian  ? as  Fielding’s,  and  been  without  Tom 
Jones  and  Amelia  ? as  Smollett’s,  and  had  no  Roderick  Ra.ndom  or 
Humphrey  Clinker  ? Or.  if  you  say  that  Addison  could  have  written, 
and  did  write,  as  good  and  humorous  things  as  those,  will  you  say 
that  the  others  did  not  write  with  a difference  from  Addison ; and 
with  such  a difference  as  the  world  strongly  feels  and  highly  delights 
in  ? You  will  grant  this  of  course.  What  constitutes,  then,  the  dif- 
ference of  Steele,  of  Fielding,  and  of  Smollet,  from  such  a writer  as 
Addison  'l  and  could  that  difference  have  delighted  us  as  it  does,  had 
it  not  resulted  from  the  Ontire  natures  and  circumstances  of  the 
men?  Very  foolish  and  very  presumptuous,  we  grant,  would  it  be  in 
any  given  imprudent  person  to  quote  their  example  in  his  defence, 
even  though  he  should  turn  out  some  day  to  have  had  warrant  for  it, 
or  be  regarded  with  indulgence  meantime  by  such  as  think  he  has. 
Those  who  have  nothing  in  them  to  justify  such  an  exceptional  con- 
sideration, come  under  another  category  altogether,  whatever  may  be 
said  in  their  excuse  ; and  those  who  have  someth ing:  must  be  content 
modestly  to  await  the  chance  of  its  recognition,  and  to  pay  in  the 
meantime  the  penalty  of  its  drawbacks. 

If  there  were  no  worse  men  in  the  world  than  Steele,  what  a planet 
we  should  have  of  it  ? Steele  knew  his  own  foibles  as  well  as  any 
man.  He  regretted,  and  made  amends  for  them,  and  left  posterity  a 
name  for  which  they  have  reason  to  thank  and  love  him.  Posterity 
thanks  Addison  too ; but  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  love  him,  even  by  the 
help  of  the  good  old  knight  Sir  Roger,  whom  Steele  invented  for  him. 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


41 


Perhaps  they  would  have  loved  him  more,  had  he  too  confessed  his 
faults  ; or  even  had  he  told  them  in  what  the  only  one  consisted  at 
which  he  hinted  when  he  sent  for  Gay  on  his  death-bed.  and  ashed 
his  pardon  for  having  done  him  some  wrong.  Steele  asked  pardon 
for  wrong,  long  before  he  died.  The  last  thing  we  hear  of  him  is 
neither  a solitary  acknowledgment  nor  a Christian  vaunt,  but  his  sit- 
ting out  of  doors  in  his  retirement,  giving  the  village  maidens  prizes 
to  contend  for.  He  said  modestly  of  his  life — (far  too  modestly,  for 
he  was  a loving  husband  and  father,  and  a disinterested  patriot),  that 
it  “ was  but  pardonable and  in  his  beautiful  effusion  to  the  memory 
of  his  friend  Estcourt  the  comedian,  he  expressed  his  gratitude  to  that 
honest  mimic  for  having  made  him  sensible  of  his  defects,  and  taught 
him  to  care  for  nothing  but  the  subjection  of  his  will. 

The  reader  will  find  the  passage  below.* 

Truly  curious  was  it,  and  lucky  for  the  world  that  Dick  Steele  and 
Joseph  Addison  should  have  grown  up  together  from  childhood,  and 
become  the  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  of  social  ethics.  But  they  had 

* “ What  was  peculiarly  excellent  in  this  memorable  companion  was,  that  in  the 
accounts  he  gave  of  persons  and  sentiments  he  did  not  only  hit  the  figure  of  their 
faces  and  manner  of  their  gestures,  but  he  would,  in  his  narrations,  fall  into  their 
way  of  thinking,  and  this  when  he  recounted  passages  wherein  men  of  the  best  wits 
were  concerned,  as  well  as  such  wherein  were  represented  men  of  the  lowest  rank 
of  understanding.  It  is  certain  as  great  an  instance  of  self-love  to  a weakness,  to 
be  impatient  of  being  mimicked,  as  any  can  be  imagined.  There  were  none  but  the 
vain,  the  formal,  the  proud,  or  those  who  were  incapable  of  amending  their  faults, 
dreaded  him  ; to  others  he  was  in  the  highest  degree  pleasing : and  I do  not  know  any 
satisfaction  of  any  different  kind  I ever  tasted  so  much,  as  having  got  over  an  im- 
patience of  seeing  myself  in  the  air  he  could  put  me  when  I had  displeased  him.  It 
is  indeed  owing  to  his  exquisite  talent  this  way,  more  than  any  philosophy  I could 
read  on  ♦he  subject,  that  my  person  is  very  little  of  my  care  ; and  it  is  indefferent  to 
me  what  is  said  of  my  shape,  my  air,  my  manner,  my  speech,  or  my  address.  It  is  to 
poor  Estcourt  I chiefly  owe,  that  I am  arrived  at  the  happiness  of  thinking  nothing 
a diminution  to  me,  but  what  argues  a depravity  of  my  will. 

* * * * * * * 

I have  been  present  with  him  among  men  of  the  most  delicate  taste  the  whole 
night,  and  have  known  him  (for  he  saw  it  was  desired)  keep  the  discourse  to  him- 
self the  most  part  of  it,  and  maintain  his  good-humor  with  a countenance  and  in 
a language  so  delightful,  without  offence  to  any  person  or  thing  upon  earth,  still 
preserving  the  distance  his  circumstances  obliged  him  to;  I say,  1 have  seen  him 
do  all  this  in  such  a charming  manner,  that  I ain  sure  none  of  those  I hint  at  will 
read  this,  without  giving  some  sorrow  for  their  abundant  mirth,  and  one  gush  of 
tears  for  so  many  bursts  of  laughter.  I wish  it  w ere  any  honor  to  the  pleasant 
creature's  memory,  that  my  eyes  are  too  much  suffused  to  let  me  go  on ” 


42 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


tastes  in  common,  and  admirable  was  the  result ; a music  more 
charming  for  the  counter-point ; Addison’s  hand  the  staider  and  the 
calmer,  the  more  artful,  the  more  informed,  yet  playful  withal,  though 
never  losing  its  self-possession  ; — Steele’s  the  more  wandering  and 
capricious,  the  lighter,  the  less  solemn,  yet  now  and  then  touching 
forth  notes  of  a more  tender  sweetness,  and  such  as  fill  the  eyes  with 
tears.  Addison  knew  nothing  of  those. 

The  reader  will  find  evidences  of  this  pathos  in  most'  of  the  follow- 
ing stories.  Those  of  Valentine  and  Unnion , and  Inkle  and  Yarico,  he 
has  probably  been  acquainted  with  from  childhood  ; hut  they  are  re- 
peated for  that  reason.  Both  are  master-pieces ; the  latter  would 
be  not  unworthy  of  perusal  after  one  of  Chaucer’s.  The  Dream  is 
lovely ; and  the  Fire , and  the  Wedding  Dai/,  heart-rending.  It  is  re- 
markable, considering  the  gaiety  of  most  of  Steele’s  writings,  that 
there  should  be  only  one  comic  story  out  of  the  eight.  The  husband’s 
flopping  down  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  and  whispering  in  her  insensible 
ear,  is  very  ludicrous. 


VALENTINE  AND  UNNION. 

AT  the  siege  of  Namur  by  the  allies,  there  were  in  the 
ranks  of  the  company  commanded  by  Captain  Pincent, 
in  Colonel  Frederick  Hamilton’s  regiment,  one  Unnion  a cor- 
poral, and  one  V alentine  a private  sentinel ; there  happened 
between  these  two  men  a dispute  about  a matter  of  love, 
which  upon  some  aggravations  grew  to  an  irreconcilable 
hatred.  Unnion,  being  the  officer  of  Valentine,  took  all  op- 
portunities even  to  strike  his  rival,  and  profess  the  spite  and 
revenge  which  moved  him  to  it.  The  sentinel  bore  it  with- 
out resistance,  but  frequently  said  he  would  die  to  be  re- 
venged of  that  tyrant.  They  had  spent  whole  months  thus, 
one  injuring,  the  other  complaining,  when  in  the  midst  of 
this  rage  towards  each  other  they  were  commanded  upon  the 
attack  of  the  castle,  where  the  corporal  received  a shot  in 
the  thigh,  and  fell ; the  French  pressing  on,  and  he  expect- 


THE  FIRE. 


43 


ing  to  be  trampled  to  death,  called  out  to  his  enemy,  “ Ah, 
Valentine  ! can  you  leave  me  here  ?”  Valentine  immediately 
ran  back,  and  in  the  midst  of  a thick  fire  of  the  French  took 
the  corporal  upon  his  back  and  brought  him  through  all  that 
danger  as  far  as  the  Abbey  of  Salsine,  where  a cannon  ball 
took  off  his  head  : his  body  fell  under  his  enemy,  whom  he 
was  carrying  off  Unnion  immediately  forgot  his  wound, 
rose  up,  tearing  his  hair,  and  then  threw  himself  upon  the 
bleeding  carcase,  crying,  u Ah,  Valentine  ! wTas  it  for  me  who 
have  so  barbarously  used  thee,  that  thou  hast  died  ? I will 
not  live  after  thee.”  He  was  not  by  any  means  to  be  forced 
from  the  body,  but  was  removed  with  it  bleeding  in  his  arms, 
and  attended  with  tears  by  all  their  comrades  who  knew  their 
enmity.  When  he  was  brought  to  a tent  his  wounds  were 
dressed  by  force  ; but  the  next  day,  still  calling  upon  Valen- 
tine, and  lamenting  his  cruelties  to  him,  he  died  in  the  pangs 
of  remorse  and  despair. 


THE  FIRE. 

CLARINDA  and  Chloe,  two  very  fine  women,  were  bred 
up  as  sisters  in  the  family  of  Romeo,  who  was  the  father 
of  Chloe  and  guardian  of  Clarinda.  Philander,  a young  gen- 
tleman of  a good  person  and  charming  conversation,  being  a 
friend  of  old  Romeo,  frequented  his  house,  and  by  that  means 
was  much  in  conversation  with  the  young  ladies,  though  still 
in  the  presence  of  the  father  and  the  guardian.  The  ladies 
both  entertained  a secret  passion  for  him,  and  could  see  well 
enough,  notwithstanding  the  delight  which  he  really  took  in 
Romeo’s  conversation,  that  there  was  something  more  in  his 
heart  which  made  him  so  assiduous  a visitant.  Each  of  them 
thought  herself  the  happy  woman,  but  the  person  beloved 


44 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE . 


was  Cliloe.  It  happened  that  both  of  them  were  at  a play 
on  a carnival  evening,  when  it  is  the  fashion  there,*  as  well 
as  in  most  countries  of  Europe,  both  for  men  and  women,  to 
appear  in  masks  and  disguises.  It  was  in  that  memorable 
night  in  the  year  1679,  when  the  playhouse  by  some  unhappy 
accident  was  set  on  fire.  Philander,  in  the  first  hurry  of  the 
disaster,  immediately  ran  where  his  treasure  was,  burst  open 
the  door  of  the  box,  snatched  the  lady  up  in  his  arms,  and 
with  unspeakable  resolution  and  good  fortune  carried  her  off 
safe.  lie  was  no  sooner  out  of  the  crowd  but  he  set  her 
down,  and  grasping  her  in  his  arms  with  all  the  raptures  of  a 
deserving  lover,  “ How  happy  am  I,”  says  he,  “ in  an  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  you  I love  you  more  than  all  things,  and  of 
showing  you  the  sincerity  of  my  passion  at  the  very  first 
declaration  of  it.”  “ My  dear,  dear  Philander,”  says  the 
lady,  pulling  off  her  mask,  u this  is  not  the  time  for  art ; you 
are  much  dearer  to  me  than  the  life  you  have  preserved,  and 
the  joy  of  my  present  deliverance  does  not  transport  me.  so 
much  as  the  passion  which  occasioned  it.”  Who  can  tell  the 
grief,  the  astonishment,  the  terror,  that  appeared  in  the  face 
of  Philander  when  he  saw  the  person  he  spoke  to  was  Cla- 
rinda  ! After  a short  pause,  u Madam,”  says  he,  with  the 
looks  of  a dead  man,  “ we  are  both  mistaken  ;”  and  imme- 
diately flew  away,  without  hearing  the  distressed  Clarinda, 
who  had  just  strength  enough  to  cry  out,  “ Cruel  Philander  ! 
why  did  you  not  leave  me  in  the  theatre  ?”  Crowds  of  peo- 
ple immediately  gathered  about  her,  and  after  having  brought 

* In  Denmark.  Philander,  Chloe,  &c.  sound  very  absurd  as  Dan- 
ish people,  but  this  application  of  ancient  names  to  modern  persons 
was  the  taste  of  the  age.  Romeo,  however,  was  an  innovation  still 
more  fantastical.  Steele,  I suppose,  in  despair  for  some  fresh  name, 
had  it  suggested  to  him  by  the  theatrical  ground  of  this  most  affect- 
ing story. 


THE  FIRE. 


45 


her  to  herself,  conveyed  her  to  the  house  of  the  good  old  un- 
happy Romeo.  Philander  was  now  pressing  against  a whole 
tide  of  people  at  the  doors  of  the  theatre,  and  striving  to 
enter  with  more  earnestness,  than  any  there  endeavored  to 
get  out.  He  did  it  at  last,  and  with  much  difficulty  forced 
his  way  to  the  box  where  his  beloved  Chloe  stood,  expecting 
her  fate,  amidst  this  scene  of  terror  and  distraction.  She  re- 
vived at  the  sight  of  Philander,  who  fell  about  her  neck  with 
a tenderness  not  to  be  expressed,  and  amidst  a thousand  sobs 
and  sighs  told  her  his  love  and  his  dreadful  mistake.  The 
stage  was  now  in  flames,  and  the  whole  house  full  of  smoke  ; 
the  entrance  was  quite  barred  up  with  heaps  of  people  who 
had  fallen  upon  one  another  as  they  endeavored  to  get  out. 
Swords  were  drawn,  shrieks  heard  on  all  sides,  and  in  short 
there  was  no  possibility  of  an  escape  for  Philander  himself, 
had  he  been  capable  of  making  it  without  his  Chloe.  But 
his  mind  was  above  such  a thought,  and  wholly  employed 
in  weeping,  condoling,  and  comforting.  He  catches  her  in 
his  arms — the  fire  surrounds  them,  while  ....  I cannot  go 
on  ...  . 

Were  I an  infidel,  misfortunes  like  this  would  convince 
me  that  there  must  be  an  hereafter  ; for  who  can  believe  that 
so  much  virtue  could  meet  with  so  great  distress  without  a 
following  reward  ? For  my  part,  I am  so  old-fashioned  as 
firmly  to  believe,  that  all  who  perish  in  such  generous  enter- 
prises are  relieved  from  the  further  exercise  of  life ; and 
Providence,  which  sees  their  virtue  consummate  and  mani- 
fest, takes  them  to  an  immediate  reward,  in  a being  more 
suitable  to  the  grandeur  of  their  spirits. 


4G 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE . 


THE  WEDDING  DAY. 

GENTLEMAN  who  had  courted  a most  agreeable 


-tL  young  woman  and  won  her  heart,  obtained  also  the  con- 
sent of  her  father,  to  whom  she  was  an  only  child.  The  old 
man  had  a fancy  that  they  should  be  married  in  the  same 
church  where  he  himself  was,  in  a village  in  Westmoreland, 
and  made  them  set  out  while  he  was  laid  up  with  the  gout  in 
London.  The  bridegroom  took  only  his  man,  the  bride  her 
maid  : they  had  the  most  agreeable  journey  imaginable  to  the 
place  of  marriage,  from  whence  the  bridegroom  writ  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  his  wife’s  father : — 


“ March  18,  1672. 


11  Sir, — After  a very  pleasant  journey  hither,  we  are  pre- 
paring for  the  happy  hour  in  which  I am  to  be  your  son.  I 
assure  you  that  the  bride  carries  it,  in  the  eye  of  the  vicar 
who  married  you,  much  beyond  her  mother ; though,  he  says, 
your  open  sleeves,  pantaloons,  and  shoulder-knot,  made  a 
much  better  show  than  the  finical  dress  I am  in.  However, 
I am  contented  to  be  the  second  fine  man  this  village  ever 
saw,  and  shall  make  it  very  merry  before  night,  because  I 
shall  write  myself  from  thence 


“ Your  most  dutiful  son, 


“ T.  D. 


“ The  bride  gives  her  duty,  and  is  as  handsome  as  an 
angel. — I am  the  happiest  man  breathing.” 

The  villagers  were  assembling  about  the  church,  and  the 
happy  couple  took  a walk  in  a private  garden.  The  bride- 
groom’s man  knew  his  master  would  leave  the  place  on  a 
sudden  after  the  wedding,  and  seeing  him  draw  his  pistols 
the  night  before,  took  this  opportunity  to  go  into  his  chamber 


THE  WEDDING  DAY. 


47 


and  charge  them.  Upon  their  return  from  the  garden,  they 
went  into  that  room ; and  after  a little  fond  raillery  on  the 
subject  of  their  courtship,  the  lover  took  up  a pistol,  which 
he  knew  he  had  unloaded  the  night  before,  and,  presenting  it 
to  her,  said,  with  the  most  graceful  air,  whilst  she  looked 
pleased  at  his  agreeable  flattery:  “ Now,  madam,  repent  of 
all  these  cruelties  you  have  been  guilty  of  to  me ; consider, 
before  you  die,  how  often  you  have  made  a poor  wretch  freeze 
under  your  casement;  you  shall  die,  you  tyrant,  you  shall 
die,  with  all  those  instruments  of  death  and  destruction 
about  you,  with  that  enchanting  smile,  those  killing  ringlets 
of  your  hair.”  “ Give  fire !”  said  she,  laughing.  He  did  so, 
and  shot  her  dead.  Who  can  speak  his  condition  ? but  he 
bore  it  so  patiently  as  to  call  upon  his  man.  The  poor  wretch 
entered,  and  his  master  locked  the  door  upon  him.  “ Will,” 
said  he, iL  did  you  charge  these  pistols  ?”  He  answered  “ Yes.” 
Upon  which  he  shot  him  dead  with  that  remaining.  After 
this,  amidst  a thousand  broken  sobs,  piercing  groans,  and 
distracted  motions,  he  writ  the  following  letter  to  the  father 
of  his  dead  mistress : — 

“ Sir, — I,  who  two  hours  ago,  told  you  truly  I was  the 
happiest  man  alive,  am  now  the  most  miserable.  Your 
daughter  lies  dead  at  my  feet,  killed  by  my  hand,  through  a 
mistake  of  my  man’s  charging  my  pistols  unknown  to  me. 
Him  have  I murdered  for  it.  Such  is  my  wedding-day.  I 
will  immediately  follow  my  wife  to  her  grave  : but  before  I 
throw  myself  on  my  sword,  I command  my  distraction  so  far 
as  to  explain  my  story  to  you.  I fear  my  heart  will  not  keep 
together  until  I have  stabbed  it.  Poor,  good  old  man  ! Re- 
member he  that  killed  your  laughter,  died  for  it.  In  the 
article  of  death,  I give  you  my  thanks,  and  pray  for  you, 
though  I dare  not  for  myself.  If  it  be  possible,  do  not  curse 


me. 


48 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 


YOUNG  gentleman  and  lady,  of  ancient  and  honorable 


houses  in  Cornwall,  had  from  their  childhood  entertained 
for  each  other  a generous  and  noble  passion,  which  had  been 
long  opposed  by  their  friends,  by  reason  of  the  inequality  of 
their  fortunes ; but  their  constancy  to  each  other,  and  obe- 
dience to  those  on  whom  they  depended,  wrought  so  much 
upon  their  relations,  that  these  celebrated  lovers  were  at 
length  joined  in  marriage.  Soon  after  their  nuptials,  the 
bridegroom  was  obliged  to  go  into  a foreign  country  to  take 
care  of  a considerable  fortune  that  had  been  left  him  by  a 
relation,  and  came  very  opportunely  to  improve  their  moder- 
ate circumstances.  They  received  the  congratulations  of  all 
the  country  on  the  occasion ; and  I remember  it  was  a com- 
mon sentence  in  every  one’s  mouth,  “ You  see  how  faithful 
love  is  rewarded.” 

He  took  this  agreeable  voyage,  and  sent  home,  every  post, 
fresh  accounts  of  his  success  in  his  affairs  abroad  ; but  at  last, 
though  he  designed  to  return  with  the  next  ship,  he  lamented, 
in  his  letters,  that  “business  would  detain  him  some  time 
longer  from  home,”  because  he  would  give  himself  the  pleas- 
ure of  an  unexpected  arrival. 

The  young  lady,  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  walked  everj 
evening  on  the  sea-shore,  near  which  she  lived,  with  a fa- 
miliar friend,  her  husband’s  kinswoman  ; and  diverted  herself 
with  what  objects  they  met  there,  or  upon  discourses  of  the 
future  methods  of  life,  in  the  happy  change  in  their  circum- 
stances. They  stood  one  evening  on  the  shore  together  in 
a perfect  tranquillity,  observing  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the 
calm  face  of  the  deep,  and  the  silent  heaving  of  the  waves 
which  gently  rolled  towards  them,  and  broke  at  their  feet ; 


THE  SHIPWRECK . 


49 


when,  at  a distance,  her  kinswoman  saw  something  float  on 
the  waters,  which  she  fancied  was  a chest,  and  with  a smile 
told  her,  “ she  saw  it  first,  and  if  it  came  ashore  full  of  jewels, 
she  had  a right  to  it.”  They  both  fixed  their  eyes  upon  it, 
and  entertained  themselves  with  the  subject  of  the  wreck, 
the  cousin  still  asserting  her  right ; but  promising,  u if  it  was 
a prize,  to  give  her  a very  rich  coral  for  the  child  of  which 
she  was  then  big,  provided  she  might  be  god-mother.”  Their 
mirth  soon  abated,  when  they  observed,  upon  the  nearer  ap- 
proach, that  it  was  a human  body.  The  young  lady,  who  had 
a heart  naturally  filled  with  pity  and  compassion,  made  many 
melancholy  reflections  on  the  occasion.  “ Who  knows,”  said 
she,  “ but  this  man  may  be  the  only  hope  and  heir  of  a 
wealthy  house,  the  darling  of  indulgent  parents,  who  are  now 
in  impertinent  mirth,  and  pleasing  themselves  with  the 
thoughts  of  offering  him  a bride  they  have  got  ready  for 
him?  or  may  he  not  be  the  master  of  a family  that  wholly 
depended  upon  his  life  ? There  may,  for  aught  we  know,  be 
half-a-dozen  fatherless  children,  and  a tender  wife,  now  ex- 
posed to  poverty  by  his  death.  What  pleasure  might  he  have 
promised  himself  in  the  different  welcome  he  was  to  have 
from  her  and  them?  But  let  us  go  away;  it  is  a dreadful 
sight ! The  best  office  we  can  do,  is  to  take  care  that  the 
poor  man,  whoever  he  is,  is  decently  buried.”  She  turned 
away,  when  a wave  threw  the  carcase  on  the  shore.  The 
kinswoman  immediately  shrieked  out,  u Oh  my  cousin  !”  and 
fell  upon  the  ground.  The  unhappy  wife  went  to  help  her 
friend,  when  she  saw  her  own  husband  at  her  feet,  and  dropped 
in  a swoon  upon  the  body.  An  old  woman,  who  had  been 
the  gentleman’s  nurse,  came  out  about  this  time  to  call  the 
ladies  in  to  supper,  and  found  her  child,  as  she  always  called 
him,  dead  on  the  shore,  her  mistress  and  kinswoman  both 
lying  dead  by  him.  Her  loud  lamentations,  and  calling  her 


50 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


young  master  to  life,  soon  awaked  the  friend  from  her  trance ; 
but  the  wife  was  gone  forever. 

When  the  family  and  neighborhood  got  together  round 
the  bodies,  no  oue  asked  any  questions,  but  the  objects  be- 
fore them  told  the  story. 


THE  ALCHEMISTS. 

BASILIUS  Valentinus  was  a person  who  had  arrived  at 
the  utmost  perfection  in  the  hermetic  art,  and  initiated 
his  son  Alexandrinus  in  the  same  mysteries  ; but,  as  they 
are  not  to  be  attained  but  by  the  painful,  the  pious,  the 
chaste,  and  the  pure  of  heart,  Basilius  did  not  open  to  him, 
because  of  his  youth  and  the  deviations  too  natural  to  it,  the 
greatest  secrets  of  which  he  was  master,  as  well  knowing  that 
the  operation  would  fail  in  the  hands  of  a man  so  liable  to 
errors  in  life  as  Alexandrinus.  But  believing,  from  a cer- 
tain indisposition  of  mind  as  well  as  body,  his  dissolution  was 
drawing  nigh,  he  called  Alexandrinus  to  him,  and  as  he  lay 
on  a couch  over  against  which  his  son  was  seated,  and  pre- 
pared by  sending  out  servants  one  after  another,  and  admo- 
nition to  examine  that  no  one  overheard  them,  he  revealed 
the  most  important  of  his  secrets  with  the  solemnity  and  lan- 
guage of  an  adept.  “ My  son,”  said  he,  “ many  have  been 
the  watchings,  long  the  lucubrations,  constant  the  labors  of 
thy  father,  not  only  to  gain  a great  and  plentiful  estate  to  his 
posterity,  but  also  to  take  care  that  he  should  have  no  pos- 
terity. Be  not  amazed,  my  child  ; I do  not  mean  that  thou 
shalt  be  taken  from  me,  but  that  I will  never  leave  thee,  and 
consequently  cannot  be  said  to  have  posterity.  Observe  this 
small  phial  and  this  gallipot ; in  this  an  unguent,  in  the  other 
a liquor.  In  these,  my  child,  are  collected  such  powers  as 


THE  ALCHEMISTS . 


51 


shall  revive  the  springs  of  life  when  they  are  yet  but  just 
ceased,  and  give  new  strength,  new  spirits,  and  in  a word 
wholly  restore  all  the  organs  and  senses  of  the  human  body, 
to  as  great  a duration  as  it  had  before  enjoyed  from  its  birth 
to  the  day  of  the  application  of  these  my  medicines.  But, 
my  beloved  son,  care  must  be  taken  to  apply  them  within  ten 
hours  after  the  breath  is  out  of  the  bodjq  while  yet  the  clay 
is  warm  with  its  late  life,  and  yet  capable  of  resuscitation. 
I find  my  frame  grown  crazy  with  perpetual  toil  and  medita- 
tion, and  I conjure  you,  as  soon  as  I am  dead,  to  anoint  me 
with  this  unguent ; and  when  you  see  me  begin  to  move,  pour 
into  my  lips  this  inestimable  liquor,  else  the  force  of  the  oint- 
ment will  be  ineffectual.  By  this  means  you  will  give  me 
life,  as  I have  you,  and  we  will  from  that  hour  mutually  lay 
aside  the  authority  of  having  bestowed  life  on  each  other,  but 
live  as  brethren,  and  prepare  new  medicines  against  such  an- 
other period  of  time  as  will  demand  another  application  of 
the  same  restoratives.”  In  a few  days  after  these  wonderful 
ingredients  were  delivered  to  Alexandrinus,  Basilius  departed 
this  life  ; but  such  was  the  pious  sorrow  of  the  son  at  the 
loss  of  so  excellent  a father,  and  the  first  transports  of  grief 
had  so  disabled  him  from  all  manner  of  business,  that  he 
never  thought  of  the  medicines  till  the  time  to  which  his 
father  had  limited  their  efficacy  was  expired.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Alexandrinus  was  a man  of  wit  and  pleasure,  and  con- 
sidered his  father  had  lived  out  his  natural  time — his  life  was 
long  and  uniform — suitable  to  the  regularity  of  it — but  that 
he  himself,  poor  sinner,  wanted  a new  life,  to  repent  of  a 
very  bad  one  hitherto  ; and  in  the  examination  of  his  heart 
resolved  to  go  on  as  he  did  with  this  natural  being  of  his, 
but  repent  very  faithfully,  and  spend  very  piously,  the  life  to 
which  he  should  be  reduced  by  application  of  these  rarities 
when  time  should  come,  to  his  own  person. 


52 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


' It  has  been  observed,  that  Providence  frequently  pun- 
ishes the  self-love  of  men  who  would  do  immoderately  for 
their  offspring,  with  children  vqry  much  below  their  charac- 
ters and  qualifications ; insomuch  that  they  only  transmit 
their  names  to  be  borne  by  those  who  give  daily  proofs  of 
the  vanity  of  the  labor  and  ambition  of  their  progenitors. 

It  happened  thus  in  the  family  of  Basilius;  for  Alexan- 
drinus  began  to  enjoy  his  ample  fortune  in  all  the  extremi- 
ties of  household  expenses,  furniture,  and  insolent  equipage; 
and  this  he  pursued,  till  the  departure  began,  as  he  grew  sen- 
sible, to  approach.  As  Basilius  was  punished  with  a son 
very  unlike  him,  Alexandrinus,  besides  that  jealousy,  had 
proofs  of  the  vicious  disposition  of  his  son  Kenatus,  for  that 
was  his  name. 

Alexandrinus,  as  I observed,  having  very  good  reasons 
for  thinking  it  unsafe  to  trust  the  real  secret  of  his  phial  and 
gallipot  to  any  man  living,  projected  to  make  sure  work,  and 
hope  for  his  success  depending  from  the  avarice,  not  the 
bounty,  of  his  benefactor. 

With  this  thought  he  called  Kenatus  to  his  bedside,  and 
bespoke  him  in  the  most  pathetic  gesture  and  accent.  u As 
much,  my  son,  as  you  have  been  addicted  to  vanity  and  pleas- 
ure, as  I also  have  been  before  you,  you  nor  I could  escape 
the  fame  or  the  good  effects  of  the  profound  knowledge  of 
our  progenitor,  the  renowned  Basilius.  His  symbol  is  very 
well  known  in  the  philosophic  world,  and  I shall  never  forget 
the  venerable  air  of  his  countenance  when  he  let  me  into  the 
profound  mysteries  of  the  table  of  Hermes.  4 It  is  true/ 
said  he,  c and  far  removed  from  all  color  of  deceit,  that  which 
is  inferior  is  like  that  which  is  superior,  by  which  are  ac- 
quired and  perfected  all  the  miracles  of  a certain  work ; the 
father  is  the  sun,  the  mother  is  the  moon,  the  wind  is  the 
womb,  the  earth  is  the  nurse  of  it,  and  the  mother  of  all  per 


THE  ALCHEMISTS . 


53 


fection.’  All  this  must  be  received  with  modesty  and  wis- 
dom. The  chemical  people  carry  in  all  their  jargon  a whim- 
sical sort  of  piety  which  is  ordinary  with  great  lovers  of 
money,  and  is  no  more  but  deceiving  themselves,  that  their 
regularity  and  strictness  of  manners,  for  the  ends  of  the 
world,  has  some  affinity  to  the  innocence  of  heart  which  must 
recommend  them  to  the  next.”  Kenatus  wondered  to  hear 
his  father  talk  so  like  an  adept,  and  with  such  a mixture  of 
piety,  while  Alexandrinus  observing  his  attention  fixed,  pro- 
ceeded. u This  phial,  child,  and  this  little  earthen  pot,  will 
add  to  thy  estate  so  much  as  to  make  thee  the  richest  man  in 
the  German  empire.  I am  going  to  my  long  home,  but  shall 
not  return  to  common  dust.”  Then  he  resumed  a countenance 
of  alacrity,  and  told  him  that  if  within  an  hour  after  his 
death  he  anointed  his  whole  body,  and  poured  down  his 
throat  that  liquor  which  he  had  from  old  Basilius,  the  corpse 
would  be  converted  into  pure  gold.  I will  not  attempt  to 
express  to  you  the  unfeigned  tenderness  that  passed  between 
these  two  extraordinary  persons ; but  if  the  father  recom- 
mended the  care  of  his  remains  with  vehemence  and  affection, 
the  son  was  not  behindhand  in  professing  that  he  would  not 
cut  off  the  least  bit  of  him  but  upon  the  utmost  extremity,  or 
to  provide  for  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 

Well,  Alexandrinus  died,  and  the  heir  of  his  body,  as 
our  term  is,  could  not  forbear  in  the  wantonness  of  his 
heart  to  measure  the  length  and  breadth  of  his  beloved 
father,  and  cast  up  the  ensuing  value  of  him  before  he  pro- 
ceeded to  operation.  When  he  knew  the  immense  reward 
of  his  pains,  he  began  the  work  : but  lo  ! when  he  had 
anointed  the  corpse  all  over,  and  began  to  apply  the  liquor 
the  body  stirred,  and  Kenatus,  in  a fright,  broke  the  phial. 


54 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


THE  VIOLENT  HUSBAND. 

"jV/TR.  EUSTACE,  a young  gentleman  of  good  estate  near 
d'J-  Dublin,  in  Ireland,  married  a lady  of  youth,  beauty, 
and  modesty,  and  lived  with  her,  in  general,  with  much  ease 
and  tranquillity  ; but  was  in  his  secret  temper  impatient  of 
rebuke.  She  was  apt  to  fall  into  little  sallies  of  passion ; 
yet  as  suddenly  recalled  by  her  own  reflection  on  her  fault, 
and  the  consideration  of  her  husband’s  temper.  It  happened, 
as  he,  his  wife,  and  her  sister,  were  at  supper  together  about 
two  months  ago,  that  in  the  midst  of  a careless  and  familiar 
conversation  the  sisters  fell  into  a little  warmth  and  contra- 
diction. He,  who  was  one  of  that  sort  of  men  who  are  never 
unconcerned  at  what  passes  before  them,  fell  into  an  out- 
rageous passion  on  the  side  of  the  sister.  The  person  about 
whom  they  disputed  was  so  near,  that  they  were  under  no 
restraint  from  running  into  vain  repetitions  of  past  heats  ; on 
which  occasion  all  the  aggravations  of  anger  and  distaste 
boiled  up,  and  were  repeated  with  the  bitterness  of  exasper- 
ated lovers.  The  wife,  observing  her  husband  extremely 
moved,  began  to  turn  it  off,  and  rally  him  for  interposing  be- 
tween two  people,  who  from  their  infancy  had  been  angry  and 
pleased  with  each  other  every  half-hour.  But  it  descended 
deeper  into  his  thoughts,  and  they  broke  up  with  a sullen 
silence.  The  wife  immediately  retired  to  her  chamber, 
whither  her  husband  soon  after  followed.  When  they  were 
in  bed  he  soon  dissembled  a sleep  ; and  she,  pleased  that  his 
thoughts  w^ere  composed,  fell  into  a real  one.  Their  apart- 
ment was  very  distant  from  the  rest  of  their  family  in  a lone- 
ly country  house.  He  now  saw  his  opportunity,  and  with  a 
dagger  he  had  brought  to  bed  with  him,  stabbed  his  wife  in 
the  side.  She  awaked  in  the  highest  terror  ; but  immediately 


INKLE  AND  YARICO. 


55 


imagining  it  was  a blow  designed  for  her  husband  by  ruffians, 
began  to  grasp  him,  and  strove  to  awake  and  rouse  him  to 
defend  himself.  He  still  pretended  himself  sleeping,  and 
gave  her  a second  wound. 

She  now  drew  open  the  curtain,  and,  by  the  help  of  moon- 
light, saw  his  hand  lifted  up  to  stab  her.  The  horror  dis- 
armed her  from  further  struggling ; and  he,  enraged  anew  at 
being  discovered,  fixed  his  poniard  in  her  bosom.  As  soon 
as  he  believed  he  had  despatched  her,  he  attempted  to  escape 
out  of  the  window  ; but  she,  still  alive,  called  to  him  not  to 
hurt  himself,  for  she  might  live.  He  was  so  stung  with  the 
insupportable  reflection  upon  her  goodness,  and  his  own  vil* 
lany,  that  he  jumped  to  the  bed,  and  wounded  her  all  ovei 
with  as  much  rage  as  if  every  blow  was  provoked  by  new 
aggravations.  In  this  fury  of  mind  he  fled  away.  His  wife 
had  still  strength  to  go  to  her  sister’s  apartment,  and  give  an 
account  of  this  wonderful  tragedy  ; but  died  the  next  day. 
Some  weeks  after,  an  officer  of  justice,  in  attempting  to  seize 
the  criminal,  fired  upon  him,  as  did  the  criminal  upon ‘the 
officer.  Both  their  balls  took  place,  and  both  immediately 
expired. 


INKLE  AND  YAEICO. 

MB.  THOMAS  INKLE,  of  London,  aged  twenty  years, 
embarked  in  the  Downs  on  the  good  ship  called  the 
Achilles,  bound  for  the  West  Indies,  on  the  16th  of  June, 
1674,  in  order  to  improve  his  fortune  by  trade  and  merchan- 
dise. Our  adventurer  was  the  third  son  of  an  eminent  citizen, 
who  had  taken  particular  care  to  instil  into  his  mind  an  early 
love  of  gain  by  making  him  a perfect  master  of  numbers,  and 
consequently  giving  him  a quick  view  of  loss  and  advantage, 
and  preventing  the  natural  impulse  of  his  passions,  by  pre 


56 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


possession  towards  liis  interests.  With  a mind  thus  turned, 
young  Inkle  had  a person  every  way  agreeable,  a ruddy 
vigor  in  his  countenance,  strength  in  his  limbs,  with  ringlets 
of  fair  hair  loosely  flowing  on  his  shoulders.  It  happened,  in 
the  course  of  the  voyage,  that  the  Achilles  in  some  distress 
put  into  a creek  on  the  main  of  America,  in  search  of  provis- 
ions. The  youth,  who  is  the  hero  of  my  story,  among  others, 
went  ashore  on  this  occasion.  From  their  first  landing  they 
were  observed  by  a party  of  Indians,  who  hid  themselves  in  the 
woods  for  that  purpose.  The  English  unadvisedly  marched  a 
great  distance  from  the  shore  into  the  country,  and  were  inter- 
cepted by  the  natives,  who  slew  the  greatest  number  of  them. 
Our  adventurer  escaped  among  others  by  flying  into  a forest. 
Upon  his  coming  into  a remote  and  pathless  part  of  the  wood, 
he  threw  himself,  tired  and  breathless,  on  a little  hillock, 
when  an  Indian  maid  rushed  from  a thicket  behind  him. 
After  the  first  surprise,  they  appeared  mutually  agreeable  to 
each  other.  If  the  European  was  highly  charmed  with  the 
limbs,  features,  and  wild  graces  of  the  naked  American,  the 
American  was  no  less  taken  with  the  dress,  complexion,  and 
shape  of  an  European,  covered  from  head  to  foot.  The  In- 
dian grew  immediately  enamored  of  him,  and  consequently 
desirous  for  his  preservation.  She  therefore  conveyed  him 
to  a cave,  where  she  gave  him  a delicious  repast  of  fruits,  and 
led  him  to  a stream  to  slake  his  thirst.  In  the  midst  of  these 
good  offices,  she  would  sometimes  play  with  his  hair,  and  de- 
light in  the  opposition  of  its  color  to  that  of  her  fingers. 
Then  open  his  bosom,  then  laugh  at  him  for  covering  it.  She 
was,  it  seems,  a person  of  distinction,  for  she  every  day  came 
to  him  in  a different  dress,  of  the  most  beautiful  bugles, 
shells,  and  bredes.  She  likewise  brought  him  a great  many 
spoils,  which  her  other  lovers  had  presented  to  her,  so  that 
his  cave  was  richly  adorned  with  all  the  spotted  skins  of 


INKLE  AND  YARIDO. 


57 


beasts,  and  most  fancy-colored  feathers  of  fowls,  which  that 
world  afforded.  To  make  his  confinement  more  tolerable, 
she  would  carry  him  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  or  by  the 
favor  of  moonlight,  to  unfrequented  groves  and  solitudes,  and 
show  him  where  to  lie  down  in  safety,  and  sleep  amidst  the 
falls  of  waters,  and  melody  of  nightingales.  Her  part  was  to 
watch  and  hold  him  awake  in  her  arms,  for  fear  of  her  coun- 
trymen, and  awake  him  on  occasion  to  consult  his  safety.  In 
this  manner  did  the  lovers  pass  away  their  time,  till  they 
had  learned  a language  of  their  own,  in  which  the  voyager 
communicated  to  his  mistress  how  happy  he  should  be  to  have 
her  in  his  country,  where  she  should  be  clothed  in  such  silks 
as  his  waistcoat  was  made  of.  and  be  carried  in  houses  drawn 
by  horses  without  being  exposed  to  wind  or  weather.  All 
this  he  promised  her  the  enjoyment  of,  without  such  fears  and 
alarms  as  they  were  tormented  with.  In  this  tender  corres- 
pondence these  lovers  lived  for  many  months,  when  Yarico, 
instructed  by  her  lover,  discovered  a vessel  on  the  coast,  to 
which  she  made  signal ; and  in  the  night  with  the  utmost  joy 
and  satisfaction  accompanied  him  to  a ship’s  crew  of  his 
countrymen  bound  for  Barbadoes.  When  a vessel  from  the  main 
arrives  in  that  island,  it  seems  the  planters  come  down  to  the 
shore,  where  there  is  an  immediate  market  of  the  Indians  and 
other  slaves,  as  with  us  of  horses  and  oxen. 

To  be  short,  Mr.  Thomas  Inkle,  now  coming  into  English 
territories,  began  seriously  to  reflect  upon  his  loss  of  time, 
and  to  weigh  with  himself  how  many  days’  interest  of  his 
money  he  had  lost  during  his  stay  with  Yarico.  This  thought 
made  the  young  man  very  pensive,  and  careful  what  account 
he  should  be  able  to  give  his  friends  of  his  voyage.  Upon 
which  consideration,  the  prudent  and  frugal  young  man  sold 
Yarico  to  a Barbadian  merchant,  notwithstanding  that  the 
poor  girl,  to  incline  him  to  commiserate  her  condition,  told 


58 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


him  she  was  with  child  by  him;  but  he  only  male  use  of  the 
information  to  rise  in  his  demands  upon  the  purchaser. 


THE  FITS. 

A FINE  town-lady  was  married  to  a country  gentleman  of 
ancient  descent  in  one  of  the  counties  of  Great  Britain, 
who  had  good-humor  to  a weakness,  and  was  that  sort  of  per- 
son, of  whom  it  is  said,  he  is  no  man’s  enemy  but  his  own ; 
one,  who  had  too  much  tenderness  of  soul  to  have  any  au- 
thority with  his  wife ; and  she  too  little  sense  to  give  him 
any  authority,  for  that  reason.  His  kind  wife  observed  this 
temper  in  him,  and  made  proper  use  of  it.  But  knowing  it 
was  beneath  a gentlewoman  to  wrangle,  she  resolved  upon  an 
expedient  to  save  decorum,  and  wean  her  dear  to  her  point 
at  the  same  time.  She  therefore  took  upon  her  to  govern 
him,  by  falling  into  fits  whenever  she  was  repulsed  in  a re- 
quest, or  contradicted  in  a discourse.  It  was  a fish-day, 
when,  in  the  midst  of  her  husband’s  good-humor  at  table,  she 
bethought  herself  to  try  her  project.  She  made  signs  that 
she  had  swallowed  a bone.  The  man  grew  pale  as  ashes,  and 
ran  to  her  assistance,  calling  for  drink.  “ No,  my  dear,”  said 
she,  recovering,  “it  is  down,  do  not  be  frightened.”  This 
accident  betrayed  his  fondness  enough.  The  next  day  she 
complained,  a lady’s  chariot,  whose  husband  had  not  half  his 
estate,  had  a crane-neck,  and  hung  with  twice  the  air  that 
hers  did.  He  answered,  “ Madam,  you  know  my  income : 
you  know  I have  lost  two  coach-horses  this  spring,” — down 
she  fell.  “ Hartshorn  ! Betty,  Susan,  Alice,  throw  water  in 
her  face.”  With  much  care  and  pains,  she  was  at  last  brought 
to  herself,  and  the  vehicle  in  which  she  visited  was  amended 
in  the  nicest  manner  to  prevent  relapses  ; but  they  frequently 


THE  FITS . 


59 


happened  during  that  husband’s  whole  life,  which  he  had  the 
good  fortune  to  end  in  a few  years  after.  The  disconsolate 
widow  soon  pitched  upon  a very  agreeable  successor,  whom 
she  very  prudently  designed  to  govern  by  the  same  method. 
This  man  knew  her  little  arts,  and  resolved  to  break  through 
all  tenderness,  and  be  absolute  master  as  soon  as  occasion 
offered.  One  day  it  happened  that  a discourse  arose  about 
furniture ; he  was  very  glad  of  the  occasion,  and  fell  into  an 
invective  against  china,  protesting,  that  he  “ would  never  let 
five  pounds  more  of  his  money  be  laid  out  that  way  as  long 
as  he  breathed.”  She  immediately  fainted.  He  starts  up  as 
amazed,  and  calls  for  help.  The  maids  run  to  the  closet.  He 
chafes  her  face,  bends  her  forward,  and  beats  the  palms  of 
her  hands  j her  convulsions  increase ; and  down  she  stumbles 
on  the  floor,  where  she  lies  quite  dead,  in  spite  of  what  the 
whole  family,  from  the  nursery  to  the  kitchen,  could  do  for 
her  relief. 

While  every  servant  was  there  helping  or  lamenting  their 
mistress,  he,  fixing  his  cheek  to  hers,  seemed  to  be  following 
in  a trance  of  sorrow ; but  secretly  whispers  her,  u My  dear, 
this  will  never  do : what  is  within  my  power  and  fortune  you 
may  always  command ; but  none  of  your  artifices ; you  are 
quite  in  other  hands  than  those  you  passed  these  pretty  pas- 
sions upon.”  This  made  her  almost  in  the  condition  she 
pretended ; her  convulsions  now  came  thicker,  nor  was  she 
to  be  held  down.  The  kind  man  doubles  his  care,  helps  the 
servants  to  throw  water  in  her  face  by  full  quarts ; and  when 
the  sinking  part  of  the  fit  came  again,  u Well,  my  dear,”  said 
he,  “ I applaud  your  actions ; but  I must  take  my  leave  of 
you  till  you  are  more  sincere  with  me  ; farewell  forever ; you 
shall  always  know  where  to  hear  of  me,  and  want  for  noth- 
ing.” With  that  he  ordered  her  maids  to  keep  plying  her 
with  hartshorn,  while  he  went  for  a physician  ; he  was  scarce 


60 


STORIES  BY  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


at  the  stair-head  when  she  followed,  and  pulling  him  into  a 
closet,  thanked  him  for  her  cure ; which  was  so  absolute, 
that  she  gave  me  this  relation  herself,  to  be  communicated 
for  the  benefit  of  all  the  voluntary  invalids  of  her  sex. 


(finks  nf  link  nnti  (0nlismit^ 

The  primary  signification  of  the  word  Club,  in  its  sense  of  a meet- 
ing of  companions,  appears  to  be  derived  from  the  same  root  as  that 
of  the  massy  stick,  and  means  a consolidated  body  of  persons  large 
enough  to  amount  to  something  substantial;  something  more  than 
accidental  and  of  no  account. 

A club  appears  formerly  to  have  meant  any  such  body  organized 
for  a common  object.  It  may  now  be  defined  to  be  a set  of  persons 
associated  for  companionable  enjoyment,  at  stated  times  and  with  a 
division  of  expenses. 

Clubs  of  this  kind  are  thought  to  be  of  very  modern  origin.  We 
suspect  they  are  as  old  as  flourishing  communities.  Traces  of  them 
are  discernible  in  the  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  the  East, 
especially  in  bacchanalian  poetry.  Indeed  it  would  be  strange  if  such 
had  not  been  the  case,  considering  in  how  many  respects  men  are  alike 
in  all  ages,  and  that  where  good  cheer  is  to  be  found,  they  naturally 
flock  together.  We  are  not  aware,  however,  of  any  ascertained  in- 
stance of  a club,  earlier  than  the  famous  one  at  the  Devil  Tavern,  for 
which  Ben  Jonson  wrote  his  Latin  rules;  and  perhaps  the  name,  in 
the  modern  sense,  is  hardly  appropriate  even  to  this.  It  is  not  certain 
that  the  rules  applied  to  an  organized  body  of  contributors  to  the 
expense,  in  contradistinction  to  a permitted  range  of  payers.  Clubs 
thickened  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  exhibited  their  un- 
doubted modern  character  in  that  of  Steele  and  Addison.  The  meet- 
ing of  wits  in  Dryden’s  time  appears  to  have  taken  place  in  the  open 
coffee-room.  It  is  in  the  clubs  of  the  Taller  and  Spectator,  that  we 


62 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


first  meet  with  all  the  characteristics  <*f  the  modern  club — its  closed 
doors,  regular  members,  and  ; creature  comforts.” 

44  Supper  and  friends  expect  me  at  the  Rose.” 

Addison,  whose  home  was  not  happy,  and  whose  blood  required  a 
stimulus  to  set  his  wit  flowing,  found  his  greatest  enjoyment  in  the 
tavern-room ; Steele  was  born  for  one ; and  except  wit,  ladies,  gal- 
lants, and  good  morals,  there  is  nothing  you  hear  more  of  in  their 
periodicals,  than  clubs.  The  circumstances  which  brought  people  to- 
gether in  this  kind  of  society,  were  often  of  so  fantastic  a nature,  that 
it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  the  real  from  the  imaginary  sort  in  the 
pages  of  these  writers  ; but  some  of  the  names  are  historical.  There 
is,  in  the  first  place,  the  Spectator’s  own  club,  with  immortal  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley,  and  Will  Honeycomb.  Then  come  the  Fat  Club, 
the  Thin  Club,  the  Club  of  Kings  (that  is  to  say,  of  people  of  the  name 
of  King)  ; the  St.  George’s  Club,  who  swore  Before  George”  (which 
would  seem  to  be  Jacobitical,  if  they  had  not  met  on  St.  George’s 
day) ; Street  Clubs  (composed  of  members  residing  in  the  same 
street)  ; the  Hum-Drum  and  Mum  Clubs  (who  ingeniously  smoked 
and  held  their  tongues) ; the  Duellists  (famous  for  being  killed  and 
“ hung”) ; the  Kit-Cat  (the  great  Whig  Club,  whose  name  originated 
in  tarts  made  by.Christopher  Ivatt)  ; the  Beef-Steak  (founded  by  Est- 
court  the  comedian)  ; the  October  (a  club  of  Tory  country-gentlemen 
and  beer-drinkers) ; the  Ugly  Club ; the  Sighing  or  Amorous  Club ; 
the  Fringe-Glove  Club  (a  set  of  fops) ; the  Hebdomadal  (a  set  of  quid- 
nuncs) ; the  Everlasting  (some  of  whom  were  always  sitting)  ; the 
Club  of  She-Romps,  who  once  a month  “ demolished  a prude”  (this 
looks  like  a foundation  of  Steele’s  acquaintance,  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montague) ; the  Mohochs,  who  demolished  windows  and  watchmen, 
and  ran  their  swords  through  sedan-chairs  (really) ; the  Little  or  Short 
Club  (an  invention  of  Pope’s) ; the  Tall  (an  invention  of  Addison’s) ; 
the  Terrible  (Steele’s) ; the  Silent,  who  had  loud  wives,  and  whose 
motto  was,  “ Talking  spoils  company”  (an  invention  of  Zachary 
Pearce’s,  bishop  of  Rochester) ; and  last  not  least,  the  Club  at  the 
Trumpet,  in  Shire  Lane,  of  which  more  anon.  These,  we  believe,  are 
all  the  Clubs  mentioned  in  the  Taller , Spectator , and  Guardian. 
Brookes’s,  and  (we  think)  White’s,  which  are  still  places  of  meeting 
for  the  wits,  politicians,  and  gamblers  of  high  life,  arose  before  the 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


63 


dissolution  of  some  of  them.  Then  there  is  the  second  Beef-Steak 
Club  (founded  by  Rich  the  harlequin)  ; the  famous  Literary  Club 
(originating  with  Dr.  Johnson) ; the  Club  of  Monks  at  Medmenham 
.Abbey  (a  profligate  mistake) ; the  King  of  Clubs  (Bobus  Smith’s. 
“ himself  a club,^’  brother  of  Sydney)  ; and  the  high  quality  club  en- 
titled Nulli  Sccundus , or  Second  to  None  (which  a metaphysical  wag 
might  translate,  Worse  than  Nothing).  Endless  would  be  the  enu- 
meration. even  if  they  could  be  discovered,  of  the  Freemason  and 
other  clubs,  which  have  attained  a minor  celebrity,  and  imitations  of 
which  branch  off  through  all  the  gradations  of  tavern  and  public- 
house,  and  are  to  be  found  all  over  the  kingdom. — such  as  Odd  Fel- 
lows, Merry  Fellows,  Eccentrics,  Free  and  Easys,  Lords  and  Com- 
mons. &c.  &c.,  illustrious  at  Cheshire  Cheeses,  and  Holes  in  the  Wall  j 
and  often  better  than  best  for  comfort.  We  must  not  forget  one,  how- 
ever, of  which  we  have  read  somewhere,  called  the  Livers,  which  had 
bottles  shaped  like  inverted  cones,  so  that  the  wine  would  “ stand” 
with  nobody,  but  was  forced  to  be  always  in  circulation.  The  reader 
wflll  not  be  surprised  to  hear,  that  these  “ Livers”  were  famous  for 
dying  before  their  time. 

Johnson  said,  that  a tavern  chair  was,  the  “ throne  of  human  felici- 
ty.” That  to  him  it  was,  we  have  no  doubt ; and  with  admirable  wit 
and  sense  he  filled  it.  Yet  the  word  41  throne”  betrays  a defect  in  the 
right  club  notion.  His  felicity  consisted  in  laying  down  the  law,  and 
having  the  best  of  the  argument.  There  was  too  much  in  it  of  his 
illustrious  namesake  the  poet.  We  suspect,  however,  that  although 
Johnson  was  greatest  among  his  great  friends,  he  was  pleasantest 
among  his  least.  He  had  to  make  the  most  of  them  in  his  turn,  and 
to  set  them  a good  example.  He  has  the  merit  of  having  invented 
the  word  “ clubable.”  Boswell,  said  he,  is  a “ clubable  man.”  He 
meant  intelligent,  social,  and  good  tempered.  These  are  the  three 
great  requisites  for  a clubbist ; and  it  is  better  to  miss  the  intelli- 
gence than  the  sociality,  and  the  sociality  than  the  good  temper.  The 
great  end  of  a club  is  the  refreshment  to  the  spirits,  after  the  cares  of 
business  or  of  home,  whether  those  cares  be  of  a bad  or  a good  sort ; 
and  though  intellect  may  be  everything  with  some,  and  sociality  with 
others,  better  is  the  merest  puff  of  a tobacco-pipe  with  peace,  than 
Johnson  himself  or  Burke  without  it.  We  are  for  the  Hum-Drums 
in  preference  to  the  Duellists  ; for  a little  noise  with  good  fellowship 
to  the  Hum-Drums  ; for  good  fellowship  and  wit  without  the  noise  to 


64 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


anything.  But  if  we  cannot  have  all  we  desire  in  those  respects,  give 
us  a few  chatty,  cordial  people,  neither  geniuses  nor  fools,  with  whom 
the  news  of  the  day  and  questions  of  personal  interest  can  be  ex- 
changed, with  the  certainty  that  there  will  at  least  be  peace  and  har- 
mony, if  little  wit.  Intellect  and  wit  enough  can  be  got  from  books  ; 
perhaps  too  much  of  them  may  have  been  met  with  in  the  course  of 
the  day.  But  a club  is  the  next  thing  before  a pillow ; and  if  it  is  to 
refresh  you  after  the  day’s  employment,  it  should  do  it  in  a manner 
that  at  all  events  dismisses  you  tranquilly  to  your  repose  for  the  night. 
We  suspect,  upon  the  whole,  that  the  Street  and  Village  Clubs  have 
been  most  successful ; meetings  established  by  the  natural  course  of 
things,  and  expecting  nothing  but  a comparison  of  daily  notes  and  a 
little  cheerful  refreshment.  As  to  great  Reform  and  Conservative 
Clubs,  Athenaeums,  &c.,  they  may  be  good  for  public  objects,  but 
publicity  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  comfort  suitable  to  the  club 
proper;  and  those  institutions  in  fact,  club- wards,  are  but  escapes 
from  domesticity  into  cheapness  and  solitude.  A man’may  be  a great 
frequenter  of  them,  and  club  with  nothing  but  callers  on  business  and 
a lonely  dinner-table.  The  club  to  belong  to,  of  all  others,  would  be 
one  composed  of  good-natured  men  of  genius,  such  as  Steele,  Fielding, 
and  Thomson,  who  had  reflection  enough  for  all  subjects,  enthusiasm 
enough  to  give  them  animation,  good  breeding  enough  to  hinder  the 
animation  from  becoming  noisy,  and  humanity  enough  to  make  allow- 
ance for  honest  occasional  departures  from  any  rule  whatever.  Shak- 
speare  would  include  such  men  in  his  all-comprehensive  person ; but 
we  are  not  sure  that  he  would  not  over-inform  the  club  with  intellect ; 
set  it  too  abundantly  thinking ; and  besides,  it  is  difficult,  as  modern 
clubbists,  to  take  to  the  idea  of  a man  of  a distant  period,  with  a dif- 
ferent style  of  language,  and  retrospective  meats  and  drinks.  Other- 
wise Chaucer  would  surely  be  a perfect  member  ; and  who  would  not 
rejoice  in  the  company  of  Suckling  and  Marvell  1 

We  have  selected  the  following  clubs  from  the  writings  of  Steele 
and  Goldsmith,  as  exemplifying  the  three  main  varieties  ; the  well- 
bred,  humorsome,  but  intellectual  club  (for  though  Sir  Roger  de  Cov- 
erley  and  Will  Honeycomb  make  the  principal  figures  in  the  account; 
of  it,  it  is  to  be  recollected  that  the  Spectator  is  there) ; the  Trumpet 
Club  in  Shire  Lane,  frequented  by  the  Tatler,  which  is  the  ordinary 
common-place  club  of  smokers  and  old  story-tellers,  by  way  of  opiate, 
bedwards  ; and  the  clubs  of  low  life,  which  Goldsmith,  as  a cosmopo- 


THE  SPECTATOR'S  CLUB . 


65 


I 

lite,  delighted  to  paint,  and  which  had  probably  often  seen  him  as  a 
visitor,  without  suspecting  that  the  simple-looking  Irishman  was  a 
genius  come  to  immortalize  it.  Steele’s  delineations  are  exquisite ; 
but  Goldsmith’s  are  no  less  so. 


THE  SPECTATOR’S  CLUB.* 

BY  STEELE. 

THE  first  of  our  society  is  a gentleman  of  Worcestershire, 
of  ancient  descent,  a baronet,  bis  name  Sir  Roger  de  Cov- 
erley.  His  great-grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous 
country-dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  that 
shire  are  very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and  merits  of 
Sir  Roger.  He  is  a gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his 
behavior,  but  his  singularities  proceed  from  his  good  sense, 
and  are  contradictions  to  the  manners  of  the  world,  only  as 
he  thinks  the  world  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humor 
creates  him  no  enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with  sourness  or 
obstinacy  ; and  his'  being  unconfined  to  modes  and  forms 
makes  him  but  the  readier  and  more  capable  to  please  and 
oblige  all  who  know  him.  When  he  is  in  town  he  lives  in 
Soho  Square.  It  is  said  he  keeps  himself  a bachelor  by  rea- 
son he  was  crossed  in  love  by  a perverse  beautiful  widow  of 
the  next  county  to  him.  Before  this  disappointment  Sir 
Roger  was  what  you  call  a fine  gentleman,  had  often  supped 
with  my  Lord  Rochester  and  Sir  George  Etherege,  fought  a 
duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  town,  and  kicked  Bully  Dawson 
in  a public  coffee-house  for  calling  him  youngster. f But  be- 

* No.  2. 

f This  has  been  thought  inconsistent  with  Sir  Roger’s  character 
for  simplicity ; but  it  is  not  so.  It  only  shows  that  simplicity  is  com- 
patible with  the  imitation  of  anything  in  vogue  during  the  outset  of 
life.  Collins,  the  poet,  whose  subsequent  appearance  Johnson  de- 


G6 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


ing  ill-used  by  the  above-mentioned  widow,  lie  was  very  se- 
rious for  a year  and  a half ; and  though,  his  temper  being 
naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless  of 
himself,  and  never  dressed  afterwards.  He  continues  to 
wear  a coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut  that  were  in  fashion 
at  the  time  of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  humors,  he 
tells  us  has  been  in  and  out  twelve  times  since  he  first  wore 
it.  ’Tis  said  Sir  Hoger  grew  humble  in  his  desires  after  he 
had  forgot  this  cruel  beauty,  insomuch  that  it  is  reported  he 
has  frequently  offended  in  point  of  chastity  with  beggars  and 
gipsies  ; but  this  is  looked  upon  by  his  friends  rather  as  a 
matter  of  raillery  than  truth.  He  is  now  in  his  fifty-sixth 
year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty ; keeps  a good  house  both  in 
town  and  country ; a great  lover  of  mankind ; but  there  is 
such  a mirthful  cast  in  his  behavior,  that  he  is  rather  beloved 
than  esteemed.  His  tenants  grow  rich  ; his  servants  look 
satisfied  ; all  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him,  and  the 
young  men  are  glad  of  his  company.  When  he  comes  into  a 
house  he  calls  the  servants  by  their  names,  and  talks  all  the 
way  up  stairs  to  a visit.  I must  not  omit,  that  Sir  Hoger  is 
Justice  of  the  Quorum  ; that  he  fills  the  chair  at  a Quarter 
Session  with  great  ability  ; and  three  months  ago  gained 
universal  applause  by  explaining  a passage  in  the  Game  Act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority  among  us  is 
another  bachelor,  who  is  a member  of  the  Inner  Temple  ; a 
man  of  great  probity,  wit,  and  understanding ; but  he  has 
chosen  his  place  of  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of 

scribes  as  “ decent  and  manly,”  astonished  his  friends  by  the  foppish- 
ness of  his  dress  on  his  first  coming  to  town  ; and  Charles  Fox,  the 
simplest  of  men,  was  at  one  time  a beau  of  the  first  fashion.  At  least 
he  undertook  to  appear  such.  We  suspect  that  the  fopperies  of  Sir 
Roger,  and  of  the  poet,  and  the  statesman,  might  all  have  been  seen 
through  by  discerning  eyes. 


THE  SPECTATOR'S  CLUB. 


67 


an  old  hmnorsome  father,  than  in  pursuit  of  his  own  inclina- 
tions. He  was  placed  there  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land, 
and  is  the  most  learned  of  any  of  the  house  in  those  of  the 
stage.  Aristotle  and  Longinus  are  much  better  understood 
by  him  than  Littleton  or  Coke.  The  father  sends  up,  every 
post,  questions  relating  to  marriage-articles,  leases,  and  ten- 
ures, in  the  neighborhood  ; all  which  questions  he  agrees 
with  an  attorney  to  answer  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the 
passions  themselves,  when  he  should  be  inquiring  into  the  de- 
bates among  men  which  arise  from  them.  He  knows  the 
argument  of  each  of  the  Orations  of  Demosthenes  and  Tally, 
but  not  one  case  in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one 
ever  took  him  for  a fool ; but  none,  except  his  most  intimate 
friends,  know  he  has  a great  deal  of  wit.  This  turn  makes 
him  at  once  both  disinterested  and  agreeable.  As  few  of  his 
thoughts  are  drawn  from  business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit 
for  publication.  His  taste  for  books  is  a little  too  just  for  the 
age  lives  in.  He  has  read  all,  but  approves  of  very  few.  His 
familiarity  with  the  customs,  manners,  actions,  and  writings 
of  the  ancients,  makes  him  a very  delicate  observer  of  what 
occurs  to  him  in  the  present  world.  He  is  an  excellent 
critic  ; and  the  time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  business. 
Exactly  at  five  he  passes  through  New  Inn,  crosses  through 
Russell  Court,  and  takes  a turn  at  Wills*  till  the  play  be- 
gins. He  has  his  shoes  rubbed  and  his  periwig  powdered  at 
the  barber’s,  as  you  go  in  to  the  Rose.f  It  is  for  the  good  of 
the  audience  when  he  is  at  a play,  for  the  actors  have  an  am- 
bition to  please  him. 

* A coffee-house  in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden,  frequented  by 
the  wits.  It  occupied  the  south-west  corner  of  Bow  Street ; and  was 
the  house  that  Dryden  had  frequented. 

f The  tavern  mentioned  in  the  pleasant  story  of  the  “ Medicine71  in 
the  first  volume  of  the  Taller , No.  2.  We  know  not  where  it  stood  ; 
probably  in  Rose  Street,  in  the  above  neighborhood. 


G8 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  Andrew  Freeport, 
a merchant  of  great  eminence  in  the  city  of  London  ; a per- 
son of  indefatigable  industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  ex- 
perience. His  notions  of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and 
(as  every  rich  man  has  some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would 
make  no  great  figure  were  he  not  a rich  man)  he  calls  the  sea 
the  British  Common.  He  is  acquainted  with  commerce  in 
all  its  parts,  and  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a stupid  and  barbar- 
ous way  to  extend  dominion  by  arms  ; for  true  power  is  to 
be  got  by  arts  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue,  that  if 
this  part  of  our  trade  were  well  cultivated,  we  should  gain 
from  one  nation  ; and  if  another,  from  another.  I have 
heard  him  prove  that  diligence  makes  more  lasting  acquisi- 
tions than  valor ; and  that  sloth  has  ruined  more  nations 
than  the  sword.  He  abounds  in  several  frugal  maxims, 
amongst  which  the  greatest  favorite  is  u A penny  saved  is  a 
penny  got.”  A general  trader  of  good  sense  is  pleasanter 
company  than  a general  scholar  ; and  Sir  Andrew  having  a 
natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  perspicuity  of  his  discourse 
gives  the  same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another  man.  He 
has  made  his  fortune  himself,  and  says  that  England  may  be 
richer  than  other  kingdoms,  by  as  plain  methods  as  he  him- 
self is  richer  than  other  men  ; though,  at  the  same  time,  I can 
say  this  of  him,  that  there  is  not  a point  in  the  compass  but 
blows  home  a ship  in  which  he  is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  in  the  club-room  sits  Cap- 
tain Sentry,  a gentleman  of  great  courage,  good  understand- 
ing, but  of  invincible  modesty.  He  is  one  of  those  that  de- 
serve very  well,  but  are  very  awkward  at  putting  their  talents 
within  the  observation  of  such  as  should  take  notice  of  them. 
He  was  some  years  a captain,  and  behaved  with  great  gallan- 
try in  several  engagements,  and  at  several  sieges  ; but,  having 
a small  estate  of  his  own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger, 


THE  SPECTATOR'S  CLUB. 


G9 


he  has  quitted  a way  of  life  in  which  no  man  can  rise  suitably 
to  his  merit  who  is  not  something  of  a courtier  as  well  as  a 
soldier.  I have  heard  him  often  lament,  that  in  a profession 
where  merit  is  placed  in  so  conspicuous  a view,  impudence 
should  get  the  better  of  modesty.  When  he  has  talked  to 
this  purpose,  I never  heard  him  make  a sour  expression,  but 
frankly  confess  that  he  left  the  world,  because  he  was  not  fit 
for  it.  A strict  honesty,  and  an  even  regular  behavior,  are 
in  themselves  obstacles  to  him  that  must  press  through  crowds, 
who  endeavor  at  the  same  end  with  himself — the  favor  of  a 
commander.  He  will,  however,  in  his  way  of  talk,  excuse 
generals  for  not  disposing  according  to  men’s  desert,  or  in- 
quiring into  it ; for,  says  he,  that  great  man  who  has  a mind 
to  help  me,  has  as  many  to  break  through  to  come  at  me,  as 
I have  to  come  at  him.  Therefore  he  will  conclude  that  the 
man  who  would  make  a figure,  especially  in  a military  way, 
must  get  over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron  against 
the  importunity  of  other  pretenders,  by  a proper  assurance  in 
his  own  vindication.  He  says  it  is  a civil  cowardice  to  be 
backward  in  affecting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a 
military  fear  to  be  slow  in  attacking  when  it  is  your  duty. 
With  this  candor  does  the  gentlemen  speak  of  himself  and 
others.  The  same  frankness  runs  through  all  his  conversa- 
tion. The  military  part  of  his  life  has  furnished  him  with 
many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of  which  he  is  very  agree- 
able to  the  company  ; for  he  is  never  overbearing,  though 
accustomed  to  command  men  in  the  utmost  degree  below  him ; 
nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  an  habit  of  obeying  men  highly 
above  him. 

But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a set  of  humorists, 
unacquainted  with  the  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age, 
we  have  among  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a gentleman 
who,  according  to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his 


70 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


life,  but  having  ever  been  very  careful  of  his  person,  and  al- 
ways had  a very  easy  fortnne,  Time  has  made  but  a very  little 
impression  upon  him,  either  by  wrinkles  on  his  forehead  or 
traces  on  his  brain.  His  person  is  well  turned,  and  of  a good 
height  He  is  very  ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse  with  which 
men  usually  entertain  women.  He  has  all  his  life  dressed 
very  well,  and  remembers  habits  as  others  do  men.  He  can 
smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and  laughs  easily.  He  knows 
the  history  of  every  mode,  and  can  inform  you  from  which 
of  the  French  king’s  wenches  our  wives  and  daughters  had 
this  manner  of  curling  their  hair,  or  that  way  of  placing  their 
hoods ; whose  frailty  was  covered  with  such  a sort  of  petti- 
coat, and  whose  vanity  to  show  her  foot  made  that  part  of 
the  dress  so  short  in  such  a year.  In  a word,  all  his  conver- 
sation and  knowledge  have  been  in  the  female  world.  As 
other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  to  you  what  such  a 
minister  said  upon  such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will  tell  you, 
when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  danced  at  court,  such  a woman 
was  then  smitten  ; another  was  taken  with  him  at  the  head 
of  his  troop  in  the  park.  In  all  these  important  relations,  he 
has  ever  about  the  same  time  received  a kind  glance  or  blow 
of  the  fan  from  some  celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  present 
Lord  Such-a-one.  . . . 

I cannot  tell  whether  I am  to  account  him  whom  I am 
next  to  speak  of  as  one  of  our  company,  for  he  visits  us  but 
seldom ; but  when  he  does,  he  adds  to  every  man  else  a new 
enjoyment  of  himself.  He  is  a clergyman,  a very  philosophic 
man,  of  general  learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most 
exact  good  breeding.  He  has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a very 
weak  constitution,  and  consequently  cannot  accept  of  such 
cares  and  such  business  as  preferments  in  his  function  wTould 
oblige  him  to.  He  is  therefore  among  divines  what  a cham- 
ber counsellor  is  among  lawyers.  The  probity  of  his  mind, 


THE  CLUB  OF  THE  TATLER. 


71 


and  the  integrity  of  his  life,  create  him  followers  ; as  being 
eloquent  or  loud  advances  others.  He  seldom  introduces  the 
subject  he  speaks  upon  ; but  we  are  so  far  gone  in  years,  that 
he  observes,  when  he  is  among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have  him 
fall  on  some  divine  topic,  which  he  always  treats  with  much 
authority,  as  one  who  has  no  interest  in  this  world ; as  one 
who  is  hastening  to  the  object  of  all  his  wishes,  and  conceives 
hope  from  his  decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my  ordi- 
nary companions. 


THE  CLUB  OF  THE  TATLER.* 


BY  THE  SAME. 


“Habeo  senectuti  magnam  gratiam,  quae  mihi  sermonis  aviditatem  auxit,  po- 


Tull.  de  Sen. 


tionis  et  cibi  sustulit.” 


u I am  much  beholden  to  old  age,  which  has  increased  my  eagerness  for  conver 
sation,  in  proportion  as  it  has  lessened  my  appetite  of  hunger  and  thirst.” 


FTER  having  applied  my  mind  with  more  than  ordinary 


LL  attention  to  my  studies,  it  is  my  usual  custom  to  relax 
and  unbend  it  in  the  conversation  of  such  as  are  rather  easy 
than  shining  companions.  This  I find  particularly  necessary 
for  me  before  I retire  to  rest,  in  order  to  draw  my  slumbers 
upon  me  by  degrees,  and  fall  asleep  insensibly.  This  is  the 
particular  use  I make  of  a set  of  heavy  honest  men,  with 
whom  I have  passed  many  hours  with  much  indolence,  though 
not  with  great  pleasure.  Their  conversation  is  a kind  of  pre- 
parative for  sleep.  It  takes  the  mind  down  from  its  abstrac- 
tions, leads  it  into  the  familiar  traces  of  thought,  and  lulls  it 
into  that  state  of  tranquillity  which  is  the  condition  of  a 
thinking  man  when  he  is  but  half  awake.  After  this  my 
reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  the  account  which  I am 
about  to  give  of  a club  of  my  own  contemporaries,  among 


* No.  132. 


72 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH 


whom  I pass  two  or  three  hours  every  evening.  This  I look 
upon  as  taking  my  first  nap  before  I go  to  bed.  The  truth 
of  it  is,  I should  think  myself  unjust  to  posterity,  as  well  as 
to  the  society  at  the  Trumpet,*  of  which  I am  a member,  did 
not  I in  some  part  of  my  writings  give  an  account  of  the  per- 
sons among  whom  I have  passed  almost  a sixth  part  of  my 
time  for  these  last  forty  years.  Our  club  consisted  originally 
of  fifteen  ; but,  partly  by  the  severity  of  the  law  in  arbitrary 
times,  and  partly  by  the  natural  effects  of  old  age,  we  are  at 
present  reduced  to  a third  part  of  that  number ; in  which, 
however,  we  have  this  consolation,  that  the  best  company  is 
said  to  consist  of  five  persons.  I must  confess,  besides  the 
afore-mentioned  benefit  which  I meet  with  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  this  select  society,  I am  not  the  less  pleased  with 
the  company  in  which  I find  myself  the  greatest  wit  among 
them,  and  am  heard  as  their  oracle  in  all  points  of  learning 
and  difficulty. 

Sir  Jeoffry  Notch,  who  is  the  oldest  of  the  club,  has  been 
in  possession  of  the  right-hand  chair  time  out  of  mind,  and 
is  the  only  man  among  us  that  has  the  liberty  of  stirring  the 
fire.  This,  our  foreman,  is  a gentleman  of  an  ancient  family 
that  came  to  a great  estate  some  years  before  he  had  discre- 
tion, and  run  it  out  in  hounds,  horses,  and  cock-fighting ; for 
which  reason  he  looks  upon  himself  as  an  honest  worthy 
gentleman,  who  has  had  misfortunes  in  the  world,  and  calls 
every  thriving  man  an  upstart. 

* The  Trumpet  was  a public-house  in  the  lane  in  which  Steele,  as 
the  Tatler  or  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  pretended  to  live.  This  lane  was  no 
greater  locality  than  Shire  Lane,  lately  so  called,  close  to  Temple 
Bar,  now  Great  Shire  Lane  ; and  the  Trumpet  is  still  extant  as  a pub- 
lic-house, called  the  Duke  of  York.  Here,  in  the  drawing-room  (for 
the  dignity’s  sake),  we  may  fancy  Major  Matchlock  and  old  Dick 
Reptile  doling  forth  their  respective  insipidities. 


THE  CLUB  OF  THE  TATLER. 


73 


Major  Matchlock  is  the  next  senior,  who  served  in  the 
last  civil  wars,  and  has  all  the  battles  by  heart.  He  does 
not  think  any  action  in  Europe  worth  talking  of  since  the 
fight  of  Marston  Moor  ;*  and  every  night  tells  us  of  his 
having  been  knocked  off  his  horse  at  the  rising  of  the 
London  apprentices  ;f  for  which  he  is  in  great  esteem 
amongst  us. 

Honest  old  Dick  Reptile  is  the  third  of  our  society.  He 
is  a good-natured  indolent  man,  who  speaks  little  himself, 
but  laughs  at  our  jokes  ; and  brings  his  young  nephew  along 
with  him,  a youth  of  eighteen  years  old,  to  show  him  good 
company,  and  give  him  a taste  of  the  world.  This  young 
fellow  sits  generally  silent,  but  whenever  he  opens  his  mouth, 
or  laughs  at  anything  that  passes,  he  is  constantly  told  by 
his  uncle,  after  a jocular  manner,  “ Ay,  ay,  Jack,  you  young 
men  think  us  fools;  but  we  old  men  know  you  are.” 

The  greatest  wit  of  our  company,  next  to  myself,  is  a 
Bencher  of  the  neighboring  Inn,  who  in  his  youth  frequented 
the  ordinaries  about  Charing  Cross,  and  pretends  to  have 
been  intimate  with  Jack  Ogle.j:  He  has  about  ten  distichs 
of  Hudibras  without  book,  and  never  leaves  the  club  until 
he  has  applied  them  all.  If  any  modern  wit  be  mentioned, 
or  any  town  frolic  spoken  of,  he  shakes  his  head  at  the  dul- 
ness  of  the  present  age,  and  tells  us  a story  of  J ack  Ogle. 

For  my  part,  I am  esteemed  among  them  because  they 

* In  1644,  where  Cromwell’s  cavalry  turned  the  day  against 
Charles  I. 

f Probably  in  1647,  when  they  forced  their  wray  into  the  House 
of  Commons  with  a petition  signed  by  ten  thousand  citizens.  But  as 
the  date  of  the  club  is  1709,  the  Major  must  have  been  a very  old 
gentleman  indeed,  if  his  memory  served  him  rightly. 

X Jack  Ogle  was  a wild  fellow  about  town,  whose  sister  is  said  to 
have  been  one  of  the  mistresses  of  the  Duke  of  York  (James  II.) 

4 


74 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


see  I am  something  respected  by  others ; though  at  the  same 
time  I understand  by  their  behavior  that  I am  considered 
by  them  as  a man  of  a great  deal  of  learning,  but  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  world ; insomuch  that  the  Major  sometimes,  in 
the  height  of  his  military  pride,  calls  me  the  philosopher  ; 
and  Sir  Jeoffry,  no  longer  ago  than  last  night,  upon  a dispute 
what  day  of  the  month  it  was  then  in  Holland,  pulled  his 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  cried,  “ What  does  the  scholar  say 
to  it?” 

Our  club  meets  precisely  at  six  o’clock  in  the  evening; 
but  I did  not  come  last  night  until  half  an  hour  after  seven, 
by  which  means  I escaped  the  battle  of  Naseby,  which  the 
Major  usually  begins  at  about  three  quarters  after  six.  I 
found  also  that  my  good  friend  the  Bencher  had  already 
spent  three  of  his  distichs,  and  only  waited  an  opportunity 
to  hear  a sermon  spoken  of,  that  he  might  introduce  the 
couplet*  where  u a stick”  rhymes  to  u ecclesiastic.”  At  my 
entrance  into  the  room,  they  were  naming  a red  petticoat  and 
a cloak,  by  which  I found  that  the  Bencher  had  been  divert- 
ing them  with  a story  of  Jack  Ogle.f 

I had  no  sooner  taken  my  seat,  but  Sir  Jeoffry,  to  show 
his  good-will  towards  me,  gave  me  a pipe  of  his  own  tobacco, 
and  stirred  up  the  fire.  I look  upon  it  as  a point  of  morality 

* In  Hudibras. 

f The  story  is  thus  given  in  the  notes  to  the  variorum  edition  of 
the  Tatler,  published  in  1797.  Ogle  once  rode  “as  a private  gentle- 
man, in  the  first  troop  of  foot-guards,  at  that  time  under  the  command 
of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.  He  had  pawned  his  trooper’s  cloak,  and 
to  save  appearances  at  a review,  had  borrowed  his  landlady’s  red  pet- 
ticoat, which  he  carried  rolled  up  en  croupe  behind  him.  The  Duke 
of  Monmouth  smoked  it,  and  willing  to  enjoy  the  confusion  of  a de- 
tection, gave  order  to  cloak  all , with  which  Ogle,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, was  obliged  to  comply.  Although  he  could  not  cloak,  he  said  he 
would  petticoat  with  the  best  of  them.” — Vol.  iii.  p.  124. 


THE  CLUB  OF  THE  TATLER . 


75 


to  be  obliged  by  those  who  endeavor  to  oblige  me  ; and 
therefore,  in  requital  for  his  kindness,  and  to  set  the  conver- 
sation a-going,  I took  the  best  occasion  I could  to  put  him 
upon  telling  us  the  story  of  old  Gan  tie  tt,  which  he  always 
does  with  very  particular  concern.  He  traced  up  his  descent 
on  both  sides  for  several  generations,  describing  his  diet  and 
manner  of  life,  with  his  several  battles,  and  particularly  the 
one  in  which  he  fell.  This  Gantlett  wras  a game-cock,  upon 
whose  head  the  knight,  in  his  youth,  had  won  five  hundred 
pounds  and  lost  two  thousand.  This  naturally  set  the  Major 
upon  the  account  of  Edge-hill  fight,  and  ended  in  a duel  of 
Jack  Ogle’s. 

Old  Reptile  was  extremely  attentive  to  all  that  was  said, 
though  it  was  the  same  he  had  heard  every  night  for  these 
twenty  years,  and  upon  all  occasions  winked  upon  his  nephew 
to  mind  what  passed. 

This  may  suffice  to  give  the  wnrld  a taste  of  our  innocent 
conversation,  which  we  spun  out  till  about  ten  of  the  clock, 
when  my  maid  came  with  a lantern  to  light  me  home.  I 
could  not  but  reflect  with  myself,  as  I was  going  out,  upon 
the  talkative  humor  of  old  men,  and  the  little  figure  which 
that  part  of  life  makes  in  one  who  cannot  employ  his  natural 
propensity  in  discourses  which  would  make  him  venerable. 
I must  own  it  makes  me  very  melancholy  in  company  when 
I hear  a young  man  begin  a story  ; and  have  often  observed, 
that  one  of  a quarter  of  an  hour  long  in  a man  of  five-and- 
twenty,  gathers  circumstances  every  time  he  tells  it,  until  it 
grows  into  a long  Canterbury  tale  of  two  hours  by  the  time 
he  is  threescore. 

The  only  way  of  avoiding  such  a trifling  and  frivolous  old 
age,  is  to  lay  up  in  our  way  to  it  such  stores  of  knowledge 
and  observation  as  make  us  useful  and  agreeable  in  our  de- 
clining years.  The  mind  of  man  in  a long  life  will  become  a 


7G 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


magazine  of  wisdom  or  folly,  and  will  consequently  discharge 
itself  in  something  impertinent  or  improving.  For  which 
reason,  as  there  is  nothing  more  ridiculous  than  an  old  trifling 
story-teller,  so  there  is  nothing  more  venerable  than  one  who 
has  turned  his  experience  to  the  entertainment  and  advan- 
tage of  mankind. 

In  short,  we,  who  are  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  and  are  apt 
to  indulge  ourselves  in  talk,  ought  to  consider  if  what  we 
speak  be  worth  being  heard,  and  endeavor  to  make  our  dis- 
course like  that  of  Nestor,  which  Homer  compares  to  the 
flowing  of  honey  for  its  sweetness. 

I am  afraid  I shall  be  thought  guilty  of  this  excess  I am 
speaking  of,  when  I cannot  conclude  without  observing,  that 
Milton  certainly  thought  of  this  passage  in  Homer,  when,  in 
his  description  of  an  eloquent  spirit,  he  says — 

“ His  tongue  dropped  manna.”* 


* We  cannot  miss  the  opportunity  of  adding  to  this  account  of 
the  members  of  the  Trumpet  Club,  that  of  another  associate,  whose 
character  is  drawn  by  Steele  in  a previous  number,  and  is  one  of  the 
finest  that  ever  proceeded  from  his  pen.  It  shows  his  contempt  of 
that  a*bsurdest  of  all  the  passions  of  mortality— Pride.  The  reader 
will  take  notice  of  the  exquisite  expression  “ insolent  benevolence  ;5' 
and  the  “ very  insignificant  fellow,  but  exceeding  gracious.” 

“ The  most  remarkable  (he  says)  of  the  persons  whose  disturbance 
arises  from  Pride,  and  whom  I shall  use  all  possible  diligence  to  cure, 
are  such  as  are  hidden  in  the  appearance  of  quite  contrary  habits  and 
dispositions.  Among  such,  I shall  in  the  first  place  take  care  of  one 
who  is  under  the  most  subtle  species  of  pride  that  I have  observed  in 
my  whole  experience. 

“ This  patient  is  a person  for  whom  I have  great  respect,  as  being 
an  old  courtier  and  a friend  of  mine  in  my  youth.  The  man  has  but 
a bare  subsistence,  just  enough  to  pay  his  reckoning  with  us  at  the 
Trumpet;  but,  by  having  spent  the  beginning  of  his  life  in  the  hearing 
of  great  men  and  persons  in  power,  he  is  always  promising  to  do  good 


GOLDSMITH'S  CLUBS. 


77 


GOLDSMITH’S  CLUBS. 

FROM  THE  ESSAYS. 

THE  first  club  I entered  upon  coming  to  town  was  that  of 
the  Choice  Spirits.  The  name  was  entirely  suited  to  my 
taste ; I was  a lover  of  mirth,  good-humor,  and  even  some- 
times of  fun,  from  my  childhood. 

As  no  other  passport  was  requisite  but  the  payment  of 
two  shillings  at  the  door,  I introduced  myself  without  farther 
ceremony  to  the  members,  who  were  already  assembled,  and 
had  for  some  time  begun  upon  business.  The  grand,  with  a 
mallet  in  his  hand,  presided  at  the  head  of  the  table.  I could 
not  avoid,  upon  my  entrance,  making  use  of  all  my  skill  in 
physiognomy,  in  order  to  discover  that  superiority  of  genius 
in  men  who  had  taken  a title  so  superior  to  the  rest  of  man- 
kind. I expected  to  see  the  lines  of  every  face  marked  with 
strong  thinking ; but,  though  I had  some  skill  in  this  science, 
I could  for  my  life  discover  nothing  but  a pert  simper,  fat 
or  profound  stupidity. 

My  speculations  were  soon  interrupted  by  the  grand,  who 

offices,  to  introduce  every  man  he  converses  with  into  the  world  ; will 
desire  one  of  ten  times  his  substance  to  let  him  see  him  sometimes, 
and  hints  to  him  that  he  does  not  forget  him.  He  answers  to  matters 
of  no  consequence  with  great  circumspection  ; but,  however,  maintains 
a general  civility  in  his  words  and  actions,  and  an  insolent  benevo- 
lence to  all  whom  he  has  to  do  with.  This  he  practises  with  a grave 
tone  and  air;  and  though  I am  his  senior  by  twelve  years,  and  richer 
by  forty  pounds  per  annum,  he  had  yesterday  the  impudence  to  com- 
mend me  to  my  face,  and  tell  me  J he  should  always  be  ready  to  en- 
courage me.’  In  a word,  he  is  a very  insignificant  fellow,  but  exceeding 
gracious.  The  best  return  I can  make  him  for  his  favors  is  to  carry 
him  myself  to  Bedlam,  and  see  him  well  taken  care  of.” — Taller , 
No.  127. 


78 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


had  knocked  down  Mr.  Spriggins  for  a song.  I was  upon 
this  whispered  by  one  of  the  company  who  sat  next  me,  that 
I should  now  see  something  touched  off  to  a nicety,  for  Mr. 
Spriggins  was  going  to  give  us  Mad  Tom  in  all  its  glory. 
Mr.  Spriggins  endeavored  to  excuse  himself ; for,  as  he  was 
to  act  a madman  and  a king,  it  was  impossible  to  go  through 
the  part  properly  without  a crown  and  chains.  His  excuses 
were  over-ruled  by  a great  majority,  and  with  much  vocifera- 
tion. The  president  ordered  up  the  jack-chain  ; and,  instead 
of  a crown,  our  performer  covered  his  brows  with  an  inverted 
jordan.  After  he  had  rattled  his  chain  and  shook  his  head, 
to  the  great  delight  of  the  whole  company,  he  began  his  song. 
As  I have  heard  few  young  fellows  offer  to  sing  in  company 
that  did  not  expose  themselves,  it  was  no  great  disappoint- 
ment to  me  to  find  Mr.  Spriggins  among  the  number  : how- 
ever, not  to  seem  an  odd  fish,  I rose  from  my  seat  in  rapture, 
cried  out,  “ Bravo  ! encore !”  and  slapped  the  table  as  loud 
as  any  of  the  rest. 

The  gentleman  who  sat  next  me  seemed  highly  pleased 
with  my  taste,  and  the  ardor  of  my  approbation ; and,  whis- 
pering, told  me  I had  suffered  an  immense  loss,  for,  had  I 
come  a few  minutes  sooner,  I might  have  heard  “ Geeho 
Dobbin”  sung  in  a tip-top  manner,  by  the  pimple-nosed  spirit 
at  the  president’s  right  elbow ; but  he  was  evaporated  before 
I came. 

As  I was  expressing  my  uneasiness  at  this  disappoint- 
ment, I found  the  attention  of  the  company  employed  upon 
a fat  figure,  who,  with  a voice  more  rough  than  the  Stafford- 
shire giant’s,  was  giving  us  'the  “Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian 
measure,”  of  Alexander’s  Feast.  After  a short  pause  cf  ad- 
miration, to  this  succeeded  a Welsh  dialogue,  with  the  hu- 
mors of  Teague  and  Taffy ; after  that  came  on  Old  Jackson, 
with  a story  between  every  stanza ; next  was  sung  the  Dust- 


GOLDSMITH'S  CLUBS. 


79 


Cart,  and  then  Solomon's  Song.  The  glass  began  now  to 
circulate  pretty  freely ; those  who  were  silent  when  sober 
would  now  be  heard  in  their  turn  ; every  man  had  his  song, 
and  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  heard  as  well  as 
any  of  the  rest ; one  begged  to  be  heard  while  he  gave  Death 
and  the  Lady  in  high  taste  ; another  sung  to  a plate  which  he 
kept  trundling  on  the  edges ; nothing  was  now  heard  but 
singing ; voice  rose  above  voice,  and  the  whole  became  one 
universal  shout,  when  the  landlord  came  to  acquaint  the  com- 
pany that  the  reckoning  was  drunk  out.  Rabelais  calls  the 
moments  in  which  a reckoning  is  mentioned,  the  most  melan- 
choly of  our  lives ; never  was  so  much  noise  so  quickly 
quelled,  as  by  this  short  but  pathetic  oration  of  our  landlord. 

Drunk  out  !”  was  echoed  in  a tone  of  discontent  round  the 
table ; “ drunk  out  already  ! that  was  very  odd  ! that  so  much 
punch  could  be  drunk  out  already  ! impossible  !”  The  land- 
lord, however,  seeming  resolved  pot  to  retreat  from  his  first 
assurances,  the  company  was  dissolved,  and  a president  chosen 
for  the  night  ensuing. 

A friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I was  complaining  some  time 
after  of  the  entertainment  I have  been  describing,  proposed 
to  bring  me  to  the  club  that  he  frequented,  which  he  fancied 
would  suit  the  gravity  of  my  temper  exactly.  u We  have,  at 
the  Muzzy  Club,”  says  he,  “ no  riotous  mirth,  nor  awkward 
ribaldry,  no  confusion  or  bawling,  all  is  conducted  with  wis- 
dom and  decency  ; besides,  some  of  our  members  are  worth 
forty  thousand  pounds,  men  of  prudence  and  foresight  every 
one  of  them ; these  are  the  proper  acquaintance,  and  to  such 
I will  to-night  introduce  you.”  I was  charmed  at  the  pro- 
posal. To  be  acquainted  with  men  worth  forty  thousand 
pounds,  and  to  talk  wisdom  the  whole  night,  were  offers  that 
threw  me  into  rapture. 

At  seven  o’clock  I was  accordingly  introduced  by  my 


so 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


friend ; not  indeed  to  the  company,  for,  though  I made  my 
best  bow,  they  seemed  insensible  of  my  approach  ; but  to  the 
table  at  which  they  were  sitting.  Upon  my  entering  the 
room,  I could  not  avoid  feeling  a secret  veneration,  from  the 
solemnity  of  the  scene  before  me  ; the  members  kept  a pro- 
found silence,  each  with  a pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a pewter 
pot  in  his  hand,  and  with  faces  that  might  easily  be  construed 
into  absolute  wisdom.  Happy  society  ! thought  I to  myself, 
where  the  members  think  before  they  speak,  deliver  nothing 
rashly,  but  convey  their  thoughts  to  each  other,  pregnant 
with  meaning,  and  matured  by  reflection. 

In  this  pleasing  speculation  I continued  a full  half-hour, 
expecting  each  moment  that  somebody  would  begin  to  open 
his  mouth.  Every  time  the  pipe  was  laid  down,  I expected 
it  was  to  speak ; but  it  was  only  to  spit.  At  length,  resolving 
to  break  the  charm  myself,  and  overcome  their  extreme 
diffidence,  for  to  this  I imputed  their  silence,  I rubbed  my 
hands,  and,  looking  as  wise  as  possible,  observed  that  the 
nights  began  to  grow  a little  coolish  at  this  time  of  the 
year.  This,  as  it  was  directed  to  no  one  of  the  company  in 
particular,  none  thought  himself  obliged  to  answer  ; where- 
fore I continued  still  to  rub  my  hands  and  look  wise.  My 
next  effort  was  addressed  to  a gentleman  who  sat  next  me ; 
to  whom  I observed  that  the  beer  was  extremely  good ; my 
neighbor  made  no  reply,  but  by  a large  puff  of  tobacco- 
smoke. 

I now  began  to  be  uneasy  in  this  dumb  society,  till  one 
of  them  a little  relieved  me  by  observing,  that  bread  had  not 
risen  these  three  weeks.  “ Ah  !”  says  another,  still  keeping 
the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  “ that  puts  me  in  mind  of  a pleasant 
story  about  that — hem — very  well ; you  must  know — but,  be- 
fore I begin — sir,  my  service  to  you — where  was  I ?” 

My  next  club  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Ilarmonical  So 


GOLDSMITH'S  CLUBS. 


81 


ciety  ; probably  from  that  love  of  order  and  friendship  which 
every  person  commends  in  institutions  of  this  nature.  The 
landlord  was  himself  founder.  The  money  spent  is  four- 
pence  each,  and  they  sometimes  whip  for  a double  reckoning. 
To  this  club  few  recommendations  are  requisite  except  the 
introductory  fourpence  and  my  landlord’s  good  word,  which 
as  he  gains  by  it,  he  never  refuses. 

We  all  here  talked  and  behaved  as  everybody  else  usu- 
ally does  on  his  club-night.  We  discussed  the  topic  of  the 
day,  drank  each  other’s  healths,  snuffed  the  candles  with  our 
fingers,  and  filled  our  pipes  from  the  same  plate  of  tobacco. 
The  company  saluted  each  other  in  the  common  manner. 
Mr.  Bellows-mender  hoped  Mr.  Curry-comb-maker  had  not 
caught  cold  going  home  the  last  club -night ; and  he  returned 
the  compliment  by  hoping,  that  young  Master  Bellows- 
mender  had  got  well  again  of  the  chincough.  Dr.  Twist  told 
us  a story  of  a parliament-man,  with  whom  he  was  intimately 
acquainted ; while  the  bagman,  at  the  same  time,  was  telling 
a better  story  of  a noble  lord,  with  whom  he  could  do  any- 
thing. A gentleman  in  a black  wig  and  leather  breeches,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table  was  engaged  in  a long  narrative 
of  the  ghost  in  Cock  Lane  he  had  read  it  in  the  papers  of 
the  day,  and  was  telling  it  to  some  that  sat  next  him  who 
could  not  read.  Near  him,  Mr.  Dibbins  was  disputing  on 
the  old  subject  of  religion  with  a Jew  pedler  over  the  table ; 
while  the  president  vainly  knocked  down  Mr.  Leatliersides 
for  a song.  Besides  the  combination  of  these  voices,  which 
I could  hear  altogether,  and  which  formed  an  upper  part  to 
the  concert,  there  were  several  others  playing  under-parts  by 

* An  impudent  imposture  of  that  day,  in  which  it  was  pretended 
that  a ghost  scratched  at  a bed.  Johnson  was  weak  enough  to  be  one 
of  its  grave  investigators,  and  Churchill’s  Ghost  was  written  in  deri- 
sion of  it. 


4: 


82 


CLUBS  OF  STEELE  AND  GOLDSMITH . 


themselves,  and  endeavoring  to  fasten  on  some  luckless 
neighbor’s  ear,  who  was  himself  bent  upon  the  same  design 
against  some  other. 

We  have  often  heard  of  the  speech  of  a corporation,  and 
this  induced  me  to  transcribe  a speech  of  this  club,  taken  in 
short-hand,  word  for  word,  as  it  was  spoken  by  every  mem- 
ber of  the  company.  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that 
the  man  who  told  us  of  the  ghost  had  the  loudest  voice,  and 
the  longest  story  to  tell ; so  that  his  continuing  narrative 
filled  every  chasm  in  the  conversation. 

u So,  sir,  d’ye  perceive  me,  the  ghost  giving  three  loud 
raps  at.  the  bed-post” — •“  Says  my  lord  to  me,  my  dear  Smoke- 
urn,  you  know  there  is  no  man  on  the  face  of  the  yearth  for 
whom  I have  so  high” — !iA  false  heretical  opinion  of  all 
sound  doctrine  and  good  learning ; for  I’ll  tell  it  aloud  and 
spare  not,  that” — “ Silence  for  a song ; Mr.  Leathersides  for 
a song” — " As  I was  walking  upon  the  highway,  I met  a 
young  damsel” — “ ‘ Then  what  brings  you  here  V said  the 
parson  to  the  ghost” — •“  Sanconiathon,  Manetho,  and  lierosus” 
u The  whole  way  from  Islington  turnpike  to  Dog-house  bar” 
— ■“  As  for  Abel  Drugger,  sir,  he’s  low  in  it ; my  ’prentice 
boy  has  more  of  the  gentleman  than  lie”* — For  murder  will 
out  one  time  or  another  ; and  none  but  a ghost,  you  know, 
gentlemen,  can” — “ For  my  friend,  whom  you  know,  gentle- 
men, and  who  is  a parliament-man,  a man  of  consequence,  a 
dear  honest  creature,  to  be  sure  ; we  were  laughing  last  night 
at” — Upon  all  his  posterity,  by  simply,  barely  tasting” — 
u Sour  grapes,  as  the  fox  said  once  when  he  could  not  reach 
them  ; and  I’ll,  I’ll  tell  you  a story  about  that,  that  will 
make  you  burst  your  sides  with  laughing.  A fox  once” — 
t£  Will  nobody  listen  to  the  song?” — L:  As  I was  walking  upon 

* A compliment  to  Goldsmith’s  friend,  Garrick,  in  the  part  *>f 
Abel  Drugger , which  was  a very  low  one. 


GOLDSMITH'S  CLUBS. 


83 


the  highway,  I met  a young  damsel  both  buxom  and  gay” — 
“No  ghost,  gentlemen,  can  be  murdered;  nor  did  I ever 
hear  of  but  one  ghost  hilled  in  all  my  life,  and  that  was 

” “ Soul  if  I don’t” — ■“  Mr.  Bellows-mender,  I have  the 

honor  of  drinking  your  very  good  health” — ■“  Fire” — 
u Whizz” — ■“  Blid” — ■“  Tit” — •“  Bat” — ■“  Trip” — the  rest  all 
riot,  nonsense,  and  rapid  confusion. 

Were  I to  be  angry  at  men  for  being  fools  (concludes 
Goldsmith,  with  touching  pleasantry),  I could  here  find 
ample  room  for  declamation  ; but,  alas  ! I have  been  a fool 
myself,  and  why  should  I be  angry  with  them  for  being  some- 
thing so  natural  to  every  child  of  humanity  ? 


Cnuut  /ntjjMii’s  Stanton  iu  tjjt  tm  Cnttnge. 

BY  SMOLLETT. 

The  Adventures  of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom  is  one  of  those  rare 
works  of  genius,  in  a very  unusual  sense  of  the  epithet,  which  a read- 
er of  a well-constituted  mind  is  at  a loss  whether  to  admire  or  to  dis- 
like. It  is  a history  of  such  elaborate  and  unmitigated  rascality,  that 
one  is  surprised  how  the  author’s  imagination  could  have  consented 
to  keep  such  a scoundrel  company  for  so  long  a period.  But  there  is 
one  scene  in  it,  which  by  universal  consent  is  a masterpiece  of  inter- 
est ; a mixture  of  the  terrible  and  the  probable  that  has  often  since 
been  emulated,  but  never  surpassed.  It  is  to  real  life  what  the  frag- 
ment of  Sir  Bertrand  is  to  the  ideal ; and  the  writing  is  as  fine  as  the 
conception.  Smollett  takes  a delight  in  showing  that  the  powers  of  his 
pen  are  equal  to  the  most  formidable  occasions.  He  rejoices  in  “ pil- 
ing up  an  agony,”  especially  on  a victim  not  so  courageous  as  himself; 
and  by  a principle  of  extremes  meeting,  a mischievous  sarcasm,  and 
strokes  of  humor  itself,  contribute  to  aggravate  and  envenom  the 
impression  of  terror. 

I FATHOM  departed  from  the  village  that  same  afternoon 
under  the  auspices  of  his  conductor,  and  found  himself 
benighted  in  the  midst  of  a forest,  far  from  the  habitations 
of  men.  The  darkness  of  the  night,  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  the  place,  the  indistinct  images  of  the  trees  that  appeared 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE. 


85 


on  every  side  stretching  their  extravagant  arms  athwart  the 
gloom,  conspired  with  the  dejection  of  spirits  occasioned  by 
his  loss  to  disturb  his  fancy,  and  raise  strange  phantoms  in 
his  imagination.  Although  he  was  not  naturally  supersti- 
tious, his  mind  began  to  be  invaded  with  an  awful  horror, 
that  gradually  prevailed  over  all  the  consolations  of  reason 
and  philosophy ; nor  was  his  heart  free  from  the  terrors  of 
assassination.  In  order  to  dissipate  these  disagreeable  rev- 
eries, he  had  recourse  to  the  conversation  of  his  guide,  by 
whom  he  was  entertained  with  the  history  of  divers  travellers 
who  had  been  robbed  and  murdered  by  ruffians,  whose  retreat 
was  in  the  recesses  of  that  very  wood. 

In  the  midst  of  this  communication,  which  did  not  at 
all  tend  to  the  elevation  of  our  hero’s  spirits,  the  conductor 
made  an  excuse  for  dropping  behind,  while  our  traveller 
jogged  on  in  expectation  of  being  joined  again  by  him  in  a 
few  minutes;  he  was,,  however, 'disappointed  in  that  hope; 
the  sound  of  the  horse’s  feet  by  degrees  grew  more  and 
more  faint,  and  at  last  altogether  died  away.  Alarmed  at 
this  circumstance,  Fathom  halted  in  the  road,  and  listened 
with  the  most  fearful  attention  ; but  his  sense  of  hearing 
was  saluted  wTith  naught  but  the  dismal  sighings  of  the  trees, 
that  seemed  to  foretell  an  approaching  storm,  xlccordingly, 
the  heavens  contracted  a more  dreary  aspect,  the  lightning 
began  to  gleam,  the  thunder  to  roll,  and  the  tempest,  rais- 
ing its  voice  to  a tremendous  roar,  descended  in  a torrent 
of  rain. 

In  this  emergency,  the  fortitude  of  our  hero  was  almost 
quite  overcome.  So  many  concurring  circumstances  of  dan- 
ger and  distress  might  have  appalled  the  most  undaunted 
breast ; what  impression  then  must  they  have  made  upon  the 
mind  of  Ferdinand,  who  was  by  no  means  a man  to  set  fear 
at  defiance  ? Indeed  he  had  well  nigh  lost  the  use  of  his  re- 


86 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE 


flection,  and  was  actually  invaded  to  the  skin,  before  lie  could 
recollect  himself  so  far  as  to  quit  the  road,  and  seek  for  shel- 
ter among  the  thickets  that  surrounded  him.  Having  rode 
some  furlongs  into  the  forest,  he  took  his  station  under  a 
tuft  of  tall  trees,  that  screened  him  from  the  storm,  and  in 
that  situation  called  a council  with  himself,  to  deliberate  upon 
his  next  excursion.  He  persuaded  himself  that  his  guide  had 
deserted  him  for  the  present,  in  order  to  give  intelligence  of 
a traveller  to  some  gang  of  robbers  with  whom  he  was  con- 
nected ; and  that  he  must  of  necessity  fall  a prey  to  those 
banditti,  unless  he  should  have  the  good  fortune  to  elude 
their  search,  and  disentangle  himself  from  the  mazes  of  the  wood. 

Harrowed  with  these  apprehensions,  he  resolved  to  com- 
mit himself  to  the  mercy  of  the  hurricane,  as  of  two  evils  the 
least,  and  penetrate  straight  forwards  through  some  devious 
opening,  until  he  should  be  delivered  from  the  forest.  For 
this  purpose  he  turned  his  horse’s  head  in  a line  quite  con- 
trary to  the  direction  of  the  high  road  which  he  had  left,  on 
supposition  that  the  robbers  would  pursue  that  tract  in  quest 
of  him,  and  that  they  would  never  dream  of  his  deserting 
the  highway  to  traverse  an  unknown  forest  amidst  the  dark- 
ness of  such  a boisterous  night.  After  he  had  continued  in 
this  progress  through  a succession  of  groves,  and  bogs,  and 
thorns,  and  brakes,  by  which  not  only  his  clothes,  but  also 
his  skin  suffered  in  a grievous  manner,  while  every  nerve 
quivered  with  eagerness  and  dismay,  he  at  length  reached  an 
open  plain,  and  pursuing  his  course,  in  full  hope  of  arriving 
at  some  village  where  his  life  would  be  safe,  he  descried  a 
rushlight,  at  a distance,  which  he  looked  upon  as  the  star  of 
his  good  fortune  ; and  riding  towards  it  at  full  speed,  arrived 
at  the  door  of  a lone  cottage,  into  which  he  was  admitted  by 
an  old  woman,  who,  understanding  he  was  a bewildered  travel- 
ler, received  him  with  great  hospitality. 


IN  THE  LONE  COTTAGE.  CJ>7 

When  he  learned  from  his  hostess  that  there  was  not 
another  house  within  three  leagues,  and  that  she  could  ac- 
commodate him  with  a tolerable  bed.  and  his  horse  with 
lodging  and  oats,  he  thanked  Heaven  for  his  good  fortune  in 
stumbling  upon  this  humble  habitation,  and  determined  to 
pass  the  night  under  the  protection  of  the  old  cottager,  who 
gave  him  to  understand,  that  her  husband,  who  was  a fagot- 
maker,  had  gone  to  the  next  town  to  dispose  of  his  merchan- 
dise, and  that  in  all  probability  he  would  not  return  till  the 
next  morning,  on  account  of  the  tempestuous  night.  Ferdi- 
nand sounded  the  beldame  with  a thousand  artful  interroga- 
tions. and  she  answered  with  such  an  appearance  of  truth  and 
simplicity,  that  he  concluded  his  person  was  quite  secure ; 
and,  after  having  been  regaled  with  a dish  of  eggs  and  bacon, 
desired  she  would  conduct  him  into  the  chamber  where  she 
proposed  he  should  take  his  repose.  He  was  accordingly 
ushered  up  by  a sort  of  ladder  jnto  an  apartment  furnished 
with  a standing  bed,  and  almost  half  filled  with  trusses  of 
straw.  He  seemed  extremely  well  pleased  with  his  lodging, 
which  in  reality  exceeded  his  expectations ; and  his  kind 
landlady,  cautioning  him  against  letting  the  candle  approach 
the  combustibles,  took  her  leave,  and  locked  the  door  on  the 
outside. 

Fathom,  whose  own  principles  taught  him  to  be  suspicious, 
and  ever  upon  his  guard  against  the  treachery  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  could  have  dispensed  with  this  instance  of  her  care 
in  confining  her  guest  to  her  chamber ; and  began  to  be  seized 
with  strange  fancies,  when  he  observed  that  there  was  no  bolt 
on  the  inside  of  the  door,  by  which  he  might  secure  himself 
from  intrusion.  In  consequence  of  these  suggestions,  he 
proposed  to  take  an  accurate  survey  of  every  object  in  the 
apartment,  and,  in  the  course  of  his  inquiry,  had  the  mortifi- 
cation to  find  the  dead  body  of  a man,  still  warm,  who  hdd 


88 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  AD  VENTURE 


been  lately  stabbed,  and  concealed  beneath  several  bundles 
of  straw. 

Such  a discovery  could  not  fail  to  fill  the  breast  of  our 
hero  with  unspeakable  horror ; for  he  concluded  that  he  him- 
self would  undergo  the  same  fate  before  morning,  without 
the  interposition  of  a miracle  in  his  favor.  In  the  first  trans- 
ports of  his  dread  he  ran  to  the  window,  with  a view  to 
escape  by  that  outlet,  and  found  his  flight  effectually  ob- 
structed by  divers  strong  bars  of  iron.  Then  his  heart  began 
to  palpitate,  his  hair  to  bristle  up,  and  his  knees  to  totter : 
his  thoughts  teemed  with  presages  of  death  and  destruction ) 
his  conscience  rose  up  in  judgment  against  him  ; and  he  un- 
derwent a severe  paroxysm  of  dismay  and  distraction.  His 
spirits  were  agitated  into  a state  of  fermentation  that  pro- 
duced an  energy  akin  to  that  which  is  inspired  by  brandy  or 
other  strong  liquors  ; and,  by  an  impulse  that  seemed  super- 
natural, he  was  immediately  hurried  into  measures  for  his 
own  preservation. 

What  upon  a less  interesting  occasion  his  imagination 
durst  not  propose,  he  now  executed  without  scruple  or  re- 
morse. He  undressed  the  corpse  that  lay  bleeding  among 
the  straw,  and  conveying  it  to  the  bed  in  his  arms,  deposited 
it  in  the  attitude  of  a person  who  sleeps  at  his  ease ; then  he 
extinguished  the  light,  took  possession  of  the  place  from 
whence  the  body  had  been  removed,  and,  holding  a pistol 
ready  cocked  in  each  hand,  waited  for  the  sequel  with  that  de- 
termined purpose  which  is  often  the  immediate  production  of 
despair.  About  midnight  he  heard  the  sound  of  feet  ascend- 
ing the  ladder;  the  door  was  softly  opened;  he  saw  the 
shadow  of  two  men  stalking  towards  the  bed ; a dark  lantern 
being  unshrouded,  directed  their  aim  to  the  supposed  sleeper  ; 
and  he  that  held  it  thrust  a poniard  to  his  heart.  The  force 
of  the  blow  made  a compression  on  the  chest,  and  a sort  of 


IN  THE  LONE  COTTAGE. 


89 


groan  issued  from  the  windpipe  of  the  defunct ; the  stroke 
was  repeated  without  producing  a repetition  of  the  note,  so 
that  the  assassins  concluded  the  work  was  effectually  done, 
and  retired  for  the  present,  with  a design  to  return  and  rifle 
the  deceased  at  their  leisure. 

Never  had  our  hero  spent  a moment  in  such  agony  as  he 
felt  during  this  operation.  The  whole  surface  of  his  body 
was  covered  with  a cold  sweat,  and  his  nerves  were  relaxed 
with  an  universal  palsy.  In  short,  he  remained  in  a trance, 
that  in  all  probability  contributed  to  his  safety  ; for  had  he 
retained  the  use  of  his  senses,  he  might  have  been  discovered 
by  the  transports  of  his  fear.  The  first  use  he  made  of  his 
retrieved  recollection,  was  to  perceive  that  the  assassins  had 
left  the  door  open  in  their  retreat ; and  he  would  have  in- 
stantly availed  himself  of  this  their  neglect,  by  sallying  out 
upon  them  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  had  not  he  been  restrained 
by  a conversation  he  overheard  in  the  room  below,  importing 
that  the  ruffians  were  going  to  set  out  upon  another  expedi 
tion,  in  hopes  of  finding  more  prey.  They  accordingly  de- 
parted, after  having  laid  strong  injunctions  on  the  old  woman 
to  keep  the  door  fast  locked  during  their  absence  ; and  Ferdi- 
nand took  his  resolution  without  further  delay.  So  soon  as, 
by  his  conjecture,  the  robbers  were  at  a sufficient  distance 
from  the  house,  he  rose  from  his  lurking-place,  moved  softly 
towards  the  bed,  and  rummaging  the  pockets  of  the  deceased, 
found  a purse  well  stored  with  ducats,  of  which,  together  with 
a silver  watch  and  a diamond  ring,  he  immediately  possessed 
himself  without  scruple ; and  then,  descending  with  great 
care  and  circumspection  into  the  lower  apartment,  stood  be 
fore  the  old  beldame,  before  she  had  the  least  intimation  of 
his  approach. 

Accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  trade  of  blood,  the  hoary 
hag  did  not  behold  this  apparition  without  giving  signs  of 


90 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE 


infinite  terror  and  astonishment.  Believing  it  was  no  other 
than  the  spirit  of  her  second  guest,  who  had  been  murdered, 
she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  began  to  recommend  herself  to 
the  protection  of  the  saints,  crossing  herself  with  as  much 
devotion  as  if  she  had  been  entitled  to  the  particular  care  and 
attention  of  Heaven.  Nor  did  her  anxiety  abate  when  she 
was  undeceived  in  this  her  supposition,  and  understood  it  was 
no  phantom,  but  the  real  substance  of  the  stranger ; who, 
without  staying  to  upbraid  her  with  the  enormity  of  her 
crimes,  commanded  her,  on  pain  of  immediate  death,  to  pro- 
duce his  horse ; to  which  being  conducted,  he  set  her  on  the 
saddle  without  delay,  and  mounting  behind,  invested  her  with 
the  management  of  the  reins,  swearing,  in  a most  peremptory 
tone,  that  the  only  chance  for  her  life  was  in  directing  him 
to  the  next  town  ; and  that  as  soon  as  she  should  give  him 
the  least  cause  to  doubt  her  fidelity  in  the  performance  of 
that  task,  he  would  on  the  instant  act  the  part  of  her  exe- 
cutioner. 

This  declaration  had  its  effect  on  the  withered  Hecate, 
who,  with  many  supplications  for  mercy  and  forgiveness, 
promised  to  guide  him  in  safety  to  a certain  village  at  the 
distance  of  two  leagues,  where  he  might  lodge  in  security, 
and  be  provided  with  a fresh  horse,  or  other  conveniences 
for  pursuing  his  route.  On  these  conditions  he  told  her  she 
might  deserve  his  clemency  ; and  they  accordingly  took  their 
departure  together,  she  being  placed  astride  upon  the  saddle, 
holding  the  bridle  in  one  hand,  and  a switch  in  the  other, 
and  our  adventurer  sitting  on  the  crupper,  superintending 
her  conduct,  and  keeping  the  muzzle  of  a pistol  close  at  her 
ear.  In  this  equipage  they  travelled  across  part  of  the  same 
wood  in  which  his  guide  had  forsaken  him : and  it  is  not  to 
be  supposed  that  he  passed  his  time  in  the  most  agreeable 
reverie,  while  he  found  himself  involved  in  the  labyrinth  of 


IN  THE  LONE  COTTAGE. 


91 


those  shades,  which  he  considered  as  the  haunts  of  robbery 
and  assassination. 

Common  fear  was  a comfortable  sensation  to  what  he  felt 
in  this  excursion.  The  first  steps  he  had  taken  for  his  pres- 
ervation were  the  effect  of  nlere  instinct,  while  his  faculties 
were  extinguished  or  suppressed  by  despair ; but  now,  as  his 
reflection  began  to  recur,  he  was  haunted  by  the  most  intol- 
erable apprehensions.  Every  whisper  of  the  wind  through 
the  thickets  was  swelled  into  the  hoarse  menaces  of  murder ; 
the  shaking  of  the  boughs  was  construed  into  the  bran- 
dishing of  poniards  ; and  every  shadow  of  a tree  became  the 
apparition  of  a ruffian  eager  for  blood.  In  short,  at  each  of 
these  occurrences  he  felt  what  was  infinitely  more  tormenting 
than  the  stab  of  a real  dagger ; and  at  every  fresh  fillip  of 
his  fear,  he  acted  as  a remembrancer  to  his  conductress  in  a 
new  volley  of  imprecations,  importing,  that  her  life  was  abso- 
lutely connected  with  his  opinion  of  his  own  safety. 

Human  nature  could  not  long  subsist  under  such  compli- 
cated terror  ; but  at  last  he  found  himself  clear  of  the  forest, 
and  was  blessed  with  a distant  view  of  an  inhabited  place. 
He  then  began  to  exercise  his  thoughts  on  a new  subject. 
He  debated  with  himself  whether  he  should  make  a parade 
of  his  intrepidity  and  public  spirit,  by  disclosing  his  achieve- 
ment, and  surrendering  his  guide  to  the  penalty  of  the  law, 
or  leave  the  old  hag  and  her  accomplice  to  the  remorse  of 
their  own  consciences,  and  proceed  quietly  on  his  journey  to 
Paris,  in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  prize  he  had  already 
obtained.  This  last  step  he  determined  to  take  upon  recol- 
lecting, that,  in  the  course  of  his  information,  the  story  of  the 
murdered  stranger  would  infallibly  attract  the  attention  of 
justice,  and,  in  that  case,  the  effects  he  had  borrowed  from 
the  defunct  must  be  refunded  for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
had  a right  to  the  succession.  This  was  an  argument  which 


92 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE. 


our  adventurer  could  not  resist : lie  foresaw  that  lie  should 
be  stripped  of  his  acquisition,  which  he  looked  upon  as  the 
fair  fruits  of  his  valor  and  sagacity  ; and  moreover,  be  detain- 
ed as  an  evidence  against  the  robbers,  to  the  manifest  detri- 
ment of  his  affairs.  Perhaps,  too,  he  had  motives  of  con- 
science that  dissuaded  him  from  bearing  witness  against  a 
set  of  people  whose  principles  did  not  much  differ  from  his 
own. 

Influenced  by  such  considerations,  he  yielded  to  the  first 
importunity  of  the  beldame,  whom  he  dismissed  at  a very 
small  distance  from  the  village,  after  he  had  earnestly  exhort- 
ed her  to  quit  such  an  atrocious  course  of  life,  and  atone  for 
her  past  crimes  by  sacrificing  her  associates  to  the  demands 
of  justice.  She  did  not  fail  to  vow  a perfect  reformation,  and 
to  prostrate  herself  before  him  for  the  favor  she  had  found ; 
then  she  betook  herself  to  her  habitation,  with  the  full  pur- 
pose of  advising  her  fellow-murderers  to  repair  with  all  de~ 
spatcli  to  the  village  and  impeach  our  hero  ; who,  wisely  dis- 
trusting her  professions,  stayed  no  longer  in  the  place  than  to 
hire  a guide  for  the  next  stage,  which  brought  him  to  the 
city  of  Chalons-Sur-Marne 


t 


€1)B  Iranit. 


BY  PARNELL. 

We  know  not  how  it  is  with  others,  but  we  never  think  of  Par - 
nell's  Hermit  without  tranquillizing  and  grateful  feelings.  Parnell  was 
a true  poet  of  a minor  order ; he  saw  nature  for  himself,  though  he 
wrote  a book  style  ; and  this,  and  one  or  two  other  poems  of  his,  such 
as  the  eclogue  on  Health , and  the  Fairy  Tale)  have  inclined  us  to 
believe  that  there  is  something  in  the  very  name  of  “ Parnell”  pecu- 
liarly gentle  and  agreeable.  Hermits  themselves,  in  poetry,  are  al- 
most always  interesting  and  soothing  people.  We  see  nothing  but 
their  brooks,  their  solitude,  and  their  resignation,  their  hermitage  and 
their  crust ; and  long  to  be  like  them,  and  play  at  loneliness. 

“And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown,  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain.” 

So,  who  does  not  love  Goldsmith’s  Edwin  and  Angelina , and  the 
gentle  line  with  which  it  sets  out  ? — 

“Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale.” 

Dravton  tears  himself  away  with  reluctance  from  a long  list  of  herbs, 


04 


THE  HERMIT. 


which  lie  describes  a hermit  gathering,  in  his  Polyolbion . The  follow- 
ing are  some  of  the  verses.  “ The  Hermit,”  he  says, 

“leads  a sweet  retired  life. 

Suppose,  ’twixt  noon  and  night,  (the  sun  his  half-way  wrought) 

The  shadows  to  be  large,  by  his  descending  brought, 

Who  with  a fervent  eye  looks  through  the  twyring*  glades, 

And  his  dispersed  rays  commixeth  with  the  shades, 

Exhaling  the  milchf  dew,  which  there  had  tarried  long, 

And  on  the  ranker  grass  till  past  the  noon-stead  hung 

“ ’Tis  then,”  he  says, 

“the  hermit  comes  out  of  his  homely  cell, 

Where  from  all  rude  resort,  he  happily  doth  dwell ; 

And  in  a little  maund:}:  (being  made  of  osiers  small), 

Which  serveth  him  to  do  full  many  a thing  withal, 

He  very  choicely  sorts  his  simples,  got  abroad. 

Here  finds  he  on  an  oak  rheum-purging  polypode  ;§ 

And  in  some  open  place  that  to  the  sun  doth  lie, 

He  fumitory  gets,  and  eyebright  for  the  eye  ; 

And  from  the  falling-ill  by  five-leaf  [ doth  restore, 

And  melancholy  cures  by  sovereign  hellebore.” 

But  Parnell’s  hermit  is  not  only  a proper  hermit,  with  a “ cave” 
for  his  “ cell,” 

u His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well;” 

he  is  a questioning  philosopher.  Resigned  as  he  is  to  Providence,  he 
is  not  without  doubts  as  to  its  attributes,  occasioned  by  the  sufferings 
of  virtue  and  the  seeming  triumphs  of  vice  ; and  an  angel  is  sent  to 
restore  peace  to  his  mind.  The  way  in  which  this  is  done,  though  it 
does  not  go  into  the  permission  of  evil  in  the  abstract  (one  of  the  se- 
crets of  good,  which  Heaven  seems  to  keep  in  reserve  for  us,  in  order 
to  enhance  the  joys  of  retrospection),  furnishes,  nevertheless,  a far 
better  and  more  Christian  answer,  than  the  assumptions  of  many  a 
graver  authority.  It  is  not  Parnell’s  own.  The  story  is  as  old,  at 
least,  as  the  Koran,  probably  a great  deal  older  ; and  has  most  likely 

* Turning  and  winding. 

f Soft.  Perhaps  in  pastoral  analogy  with  milk. 

% Basket. 

§ Polypodium  (Many-foot),  a genus  of  fern. 

J Cinque-foil — Potcntilla  (from  its  medical  powers)— a flower  of  the  order 
Rosacea. 


THE  HERMIT. 


95 


been  told  in  the  languages  of  all  civilized  countries.  But  Parnell’s 
is  the  most  pleasing  version  of  it  we  know.  The  undertone  of  thought 
and  wonder,  on  the  hermit’s  part,  is  well  preserved  ; the  touches  of 
scenery  evince  the  author’s  taste  for  nature ; and  even  the  sweet 
monotony  of  the  versification  (so  like  Pope’s,  that  he  has  been  invidi- 
ously said  to  have  had  a hand  in  it),  is  not  unsuitable  to  the  eremeti- 
cal  ground-work  of  the  subject  and  the  lesson  of  resignation. 

Parnell  was  a gentle  clergyman,  who,  with  all  his  inculcations  of 
patience  and  retirement,  found  it  difficult  to  reconcile  himself  to  a 
desolate  spot  in  Ireland,  and  impossible  (it  is  said)  to  bear  the  loss  of 
his  wife.  We  often  preach  what  we  cannot  practise,  not  out  of  hypoc- 
risy, but  from  opposing  frailties  and  unavailing  desire.  Parnell  ad- 
mired his  hermit  the  more,  because  he  could  not  settle  down  to  his 
solitude  and  his  bin  of  water.  There  is  a touching  passage  about  him 
in  one  of  the  letters  of  Swift.  Bolingbroke’s  second  wife  was  like  the 
one  that  Parnell  had  lost.  The  poor  poet  saw  her,  for  the  first  time, 
on  a visit  at  Bolingbroke’s  house ; and  when  she  came  into  the  room, 
Swift  says,  he  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  her,  and  seemed  very 
melancholy. 


THE  HERMIT. 

FAR  in  a wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 

From  youth  to  age  a reverend  hermit  grew  ; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 

His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well ; 
Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  pass’d  his  days, 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 

Seemed  heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose  ; 
That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey, 

This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence’s  sway  , 
His  hopes  no  more  a certain  prospect  boast, 

And  all  the  tenor  of  his  soul  is  lost. 

So  when  a smooth  expanse  receives,  imprest 
Calm  Nature’s  image  on  its  watery  breast, 


96 


THE  HERMIT. 


Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow, 
And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colors  glow : 

But  if  a stone  the  gentle  sea  divide, 

Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side ; 

And  glimmering  fragments  of  a broken  sun, 

Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight, 

To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right, 

(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew, 

Whose  feet  came  wandering  o’er  the  nightly  dew.) 
He  quits  his  cell ; the  pilgrim  staff  he  bore, 

And  fix’d  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before  ; 

Then  with  the  sun  a rising  journey  went, 

Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass, 

And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass  ; 

But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warmed  the  day, 

A youth  came  posting  o’er  a crossing  way  ; 

His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 

And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  wav’d  his  hair. 

Then,  near  approaching,  u Father,  hail !”  he  cried, 
And  u Hail,  my  son,”  the  reverend  sire  replied  ; 
Words  followed  words,  from  question  answer  flow’d, 
And  talk  of  various  kind  deceiv’d  the  road  ; 

Till  each  with  other  pleas’d,  and  loth  to  part, 

While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart- 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm,  in  ivy  bound ; 

Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Nowt  sunk  the  sun  ; the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o’er  with  sober  gray  ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose, 

When  near  the  road  a stately  palace  rose ; 


THE  HERm  T. 


97 


There,  by  the  moon,  through  ranks  of  trees  they  pass, 
Whose  verdure  crown’d  their  sloping  sides  of  grass. 

It  chanc’d  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 

Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger’s  home  : 

Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a thirst  of  praise, 

Prov’d  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 

The  pair  arrive ; the  liveried  servants  wait, 

Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate  ; 

The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food, 

And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 

Then  led  to  rest,  the  day’s  long  toil  they  drown, 

Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  }tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play : 

Fresh  o’er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 

And  shake  the  neighboring  wood  to  banish  sleep. 

Up  rise  the  guests  obedient  to  the  call, 

An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall ; 

Rich  luscious  wine  a golden  goblet  grac’d, 

Which  the  kind  master  forc’d  the  guests  to  taste. 
Then  pleas’d  and  thankful  from  the  porch  they  go ; 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe : 

His  cup  was  vanished  ; for,  in  secret  guise, 

The  younger  guest  purloin’d  the  glittering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a serpent  in  his  way, 

Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 

Disorder’d  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near, 

Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear ; 

So  seem’d  the  sire,  when  far  upon  the  road 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show’d. 

He  stopp’d  with  silence,  walk’d  with  trembling  heart, 
And  much  he  wish’d,  but  durst  not  ask  to  part ; 

5 


THE  HERMIT. 


06 

Murmuring  lie  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard 
That  generous  actions  meet  a base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory  shrouds. 

The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds ; 

A sound  in  air  presag’d  approaching  rain, 

And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 

Warn’d  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair  retreat 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a neighboring  seat. 

’Twas  built  with  turrets  on  a rising  ground, 

And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimproved  around ; 

Its  owner’s  temper  timorous  and  severe, 

Unkind  and  griping,  caused  a desert  there. 

As  near  the  miser’s  heavy  doors  they  drew, 

Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew  ; 

The  nimble  lightning  mix’d  with  showers  began, 

And  o’er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunder  ran. 

Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain, 

Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter’d  by  the  rain. 

At  length  some  pity  warm’d  the  master’s  breast 
(’Twas  then  his  threshold  first  received  a guest) ; 

Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care, 

And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair : 

One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 

And  Nature’s  fervor  through  their  limbs  recalls  ; 

Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine,* 

(Each  hardly  granted)  serv’d  them  both  to  dine ; 

And  when  the  tempest  first  appear’d  to  cease, 

A ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 

With  still  remark  the  pondering  hermit  view’d, 

In  one  so  rich,  a life  so  poor  and  rude  ; 

* The  word  eager  is  here  used  in  its  old  sense  of  “ sour” — aigre ; 
and  if  we  interpret  “wine”  accordingly,  “eager  wine”  should  he 
vinegar — vin-aigre. 


THE  HERMIT. 


99 


And  why  should  such  within  himself,  he  cried, 

Lock  the  lost  wealth  a thousand  want  beside  ? 

But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  took  place 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face, 

When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
The  cup  the  generous  landlord  own’d  before, 

And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  his  churlish  soul ! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly ; 

The  sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky ; 

A fresher  green  the  smiling  leaves  display, 

And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day ; 

The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 

And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While  hence  they  walk,  the  pilgrim’s  bosom  wrought 
With  all  the  travel  of  uncertain  thought ; 

His  partner’s  acts  without  their  cause  appear, 

’Twas  there  a vice,  and  seemed  a madness  here ; 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 

Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 

Now  night’s  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky, 

Again  the  wanderers  want  a place  to  lie  ; 

Again  they  search,  and  find  a lodging  nigh. 

The  soil  improv’d  around,  the  mansion  neat, 

And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great, 

It  seem’d  to  speak  its  master’s  turn  of  mind, 

Content,  and  not  to  praise,  but  virtue  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  their  weary  feet, 

Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet ; 

Their  greeting  fair,  bestow’d  with  modest  guise, 

The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies  : 
u Without  a vain,  without  a grudging  heart, 

To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I yield  a part ; 


100 


THE  HERMIT. 


From  him  you  come,  from  him  accept  it  here, 

A frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer.” 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 

They  talk  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed  ; 

When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 
Warn’d  by  a bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew’d  by  calm  repose, 
Was  strong  for  toil;  the  dappled  morn  arose ; 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  clos’d  cradle  where  an  infant  slept, 

And  writh’d  its  neck ; the  landlord’s  little  pride, 

0 strange  return  ! grew  black,  and  gasp’d,  and  died. 
Horror  of  horrors  ! what ! his  only  son  ! 

How  look’d  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was  done ; 

Not  hell,  though  hell’s  black  jaws  in  sunder  part, 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his  heart. 

Confus’d,  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed, 

He  flies;  but,  trembling,  fails  to  fly  with  speed  ; 

His  steps  the  youth  pursues ; the  country  lay 
Perplex’d  with  roads  ; a servant  show’d  the  way  ; 

A river  cross’d  the  path,  ihe  passage  o’er 
Was  nice  to  find  ; the  servant  trod  before  ; 

Long  arms  of  oak  an  oaken  bridge  supplied, 

And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  glide  ; 

The  youth,  who  seem’d  to  watch  a time  to  sin, 
Approach’d  the  careless  guide  and  thrust  him  in  ; 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising,  lifts  his  head, 

Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

Wild  sparkling  rage  inflame  the  father’s  eyes, 

He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
u Detested  wretch  !” — but  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seemed  no  longer  man  ; 


THE  HERMIT. 


101 


His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 

His  robe  turn’d  white,  and  flow’d  upon  his  feet ; 

Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair  ; 

Celestial  odors  breathe  through  purpled  air  ; 

And  wings,  whose  colors  glittered  on  the  day, 

Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display  ; 

The  form  ethereal  burst  upon  his  sight, 

And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim’s  passion  grew, 
Sudden  he  gaz’d,  and  wist  not  what  to  do  ; 

Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 

And  in  a calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 

But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke 
(The  voice  of  music  ravish’d  as  he  spoke). 

a Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown, 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne  ; 

These  charms  success  in  our  bright  region  find, 

And  force  an  angel  down  to  calm  thy  mind  ; 

For  this  commission’d,  I forsook  the  sky  ; 

Nay,  cease  to  kneel,  thy  fellow-servant  I. 

“ Then  know  the  truth  of  government  divine, 

And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

“ The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made, 

In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid  ; 

Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends  : 

’Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye, 

The  Power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high  ; 

Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 

And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

u What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  surprise 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  eyes  ? 


102 


THE  HERMIT. 


Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  the  Almighty  just, 

And  where  you  can’t  unriddle,  learn  to  trust ! 

“ The  great,  vain  man,  who  far’d  on  costly  food, 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good, 

Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets  shine, 
x\nd  forc’d  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of  wine, 
Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost, 

And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

u The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  dooi 
Ne’er  mov’d  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor  ; 

With  him  I left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl, 

And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 

Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 

With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head  ; 

In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 

And,  loose  from  dross,  the  silver  runs  below. 

u Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod, 

But  now  the  child  half  wean’d  his  heart  from  God  ; 
Child  of  his  age,  for  him  he  liv’d  in  pain, 

And  measured  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 

To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run  ? 

But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 

To  all,  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seemed  to  go, 

And  ’twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow  : 

The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 

Now  owns,  in  tears,  the  punishment  was  just. 

u But  now  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a wrack, 

Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back : 

This  night  his  treasur’d  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 

And  what  a fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 


THE  HERMIT. 


103 


Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind  : this  trial  o’er. 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more.” 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew, 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 

Thus  look’d  Elisha,  when,  to  mount  on  high, 

His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky  ; 

The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  to  view ; 

The  prophet  gaz’d,  and  wish’d  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a prayer  begun, 

Lord  ! as  in  heaven , on  earth  thy  vrill  be  done  : 
Then,  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  pass’d  a life  of  piety  and  peace. 


ffilu  $ DttiitB’s  Dialogue  initji  iparsiia  Skills. 

from  fielding’s  u Joseph  Andrews.” 

There  was  once  in  great  vogue  a book  called  Pamela , or  Virtue 
Rewarded , the  object  of  which  was  to  show  how  a servant-maid  might 
be  very  virtuous,  in  the  heavenly  sense  of  the  word,  and  very  prosper- 
ous, in  the  worldly  ; a combination  which,  in  the  author’s  opinion,  was 
effected  by  making  her  resist  all  the  efforts  of  a vicious  master  to  ruin 
her,  and  then  accept  his  hand  in  marriage  when  he  found  he  could 
obtain  her  in  no  other  way.  Society  is  so  much  advanced  in  reflec- 
tion since  the  writing  of  that  book,  that  a moral  so  bad  would  now 
meet  with  contempt  from  critics  of  all  classes,  even  though  recom- 
mended by  as  rare  and  affecting  a genius  as  his  who  taught  it,  and 
who  was  no  less  a person  than  Samuel  Richardson,  author  of  Clarissa 
Harlowe.  With  much  that  is  admirable  and  noble,  there  is  a great 
deal  of  lalse  morality  even  in  Clarissa;  a dangerous  exaltation  of  the 
formal,  aud  literal,  and  self-worshipping,  above  the  heartier  dictates 
of  prudence  itself.  But  the  moral  in  Pamela  (with  leave  of  a great 
name,  be  it  said),  was  a pure  vulgar  mistake.  The  master  was  a 
scoundrel  to  whom  an  honest  girl  ought  not  to  have  been  given  in 
marriage  at  all ; and  the  heroine  was  a prig  and  a schemer,  with  no 
real  respect  for  the  virtues  she  professed,  otherwise  she  would  not 
have  jumped  at  the  first  “ honorable”  offer  from  one  who  had  done  all 
he  could  to  destroy  her. 

The  healthier  genius  of  Fielding  saw  the  folly  of  these  ethics  ; and, 
seasoning  his  wish  to  counteract  them  with  a spice  of  no  ill-natured 
malice  against  the  author  (who  was  in  the  habit  of  making  another 


PETER  POUNCE’S  DIALOGUE. 


105 


vulgar  mistake,  and  applying  that  epithet  to  all  who  wrote  of  humble 
life  not  in  his  own  manner,  particularly  Fielding  himself),  produced 
the  exquisite  novel  of  Joseph  Andrews.  In  this,  not  his  greatest,  but 
in  our  opinion  most  delightful  work,  he  has  contrived,  with  a most 
unexpected,  successful,  and  (to  Richardson,  we  fear)  most  provoking 
admission  of  the  value  of  his  moral  when  put  into  right  action,  to 
make  Joseph  Andrews  Pamela’s  own  brother,  both  in  blood  and  vir- 
tue ; to  maintain  his  manly  character  nevertheless,  in  spite  of  conven- 
tional jests  and  prejudices  ; and,  at  the  same  time,  to  show  how  little 
of  her  pretended  purity  and  humility  was  in  the  sister,  who  in  admi- 
rable keeping  with  the  spirit  of  her  matrimonial  virtue,  objects  to  her 
brother’s  marrying  a girl  in  her  own  former  condition  of  society,  be- 
cause it  was  lowering  the  family  which  her  “ dear  Mr.  B.”  had 
“ raised.”  As  a pleasant  instance  of  Fielding’s  quickness  and  vivacity 
in  small  matters  as  well  as  great,  this  “ Mr.  B.”  of  Richardson  (for  his 
name  never  appears  in  that  author  except  as  an  initial)  is  assumed  by 
Fielding  to  have  been  a Mr.  “ Booby.”  Mr.  Booby’s  fine  town-lady 
aunt,  Lady  B.,  thus  becomes  Lady  Booby.  She  and  her  nephew  ena- 
ble us  to  see,  that  people  of  no  real  heart  and  goodness,  whatever  be 
their  rank,  riches,  or  gaiety,  may  deserve  the  appellation  of  fool,  as 
well  as  humbler  or  more  solemn  pretenders  ; and  this  is  one  of  the 
many  instances,  we  think,  in  which  an  exception  should  be  made  in 
favor  of  those  characteristical  names  of  persons  in  works  of  fiction,  to 
which  critics  make  wholesale  objection.  Names  of  the  kind  often  oc- 
cur in  real  life,  sometimes  with  ludicrous  propriety ; and  if  similar 
ones  could  be  taken  away  from  the  novels  in  which  we  have  been 
used  to  them,  people  would  reasonably  miss  the  Boobies  palmed  upon 
Richardson,  the  Pickles  and  Bowlings  of  Smollett,  the  Snakes  and  Sir 
Anthony  Absolutes  of  Sheridan,  and  the  Marplots  and  Aimwells  of  Cent- 
livre  and  Farquhar.  We  confess  we  should  be  loth  to  lose  even  the 
Dryasdusts  of  Sir  Walter,  excessive  as  they  may  appear.  Fortune 
herself,  (not  to  say  Nature)  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  these  whims  of 
cognomination.  Who  has  not  met  with  stout  gentlemen  of  the  name 
of  Onslow  and  Heaviside ; lively  Miss  Quicks,  and  languishing  Mrs. 
Sweets  I 

Joseph  Andrews  is  a footman  who  marries  a maid-servant.  They 
are  excellent  persons,  and  have  a delicious  friend  in  Mr.  Abraham 
Adams,  a country  curate,  who  prefers  his  JEschylus  to  everything  but 
his  duty.  He  is  one  of  the  simplest  but  at  the  same  time  manliest 


10(5 


PETER  POUNCE' S DIALOGUE 


of  men  ; is  anxious  to  read  a man  of  the  world  his  sermon  on  “ van- 
ity preaches  patience  under  affliction,  and  is  ready  to  lose  his  sen- 
ses on  the  death  of  his  little  boy ; in  short,  has  “every  virtue  under 
heaven,”  except  that  of  superiority  to  the  common  failings  of  human- 
ity, or  of  being  able  to  resist  knocking  a rascal  down  when  he  insults 
the  innocent.  He  is  very  poor ; and,  agreeably  to  the  notions  of  re- 
finement in  those  days,  is  treated  by  the  rich  as  if  he  were  little  bet- 
ter than  a servant  himself.  Even  their  stewards  think  it  a condescen- 
sion to  treat  him  on  equal  terms.  In  the  following  scene,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  in  all  novel-writing,  the  reader  experiences 
a delightful  triumph  in  seeing  how  a vulgar  upstart  of  this  class  is  led 
to  betray  his  baseness  while  he  thinks  he  is  most  exalting  himself— 
Adams,  on  the  other  hand,  rising  and  becoming  glorious  out  of  the 
depths  of  his  humble  honesty.  The  picture  gives  you  such  a vivid 
idea  of  the  two  men,  that  not  having  read  it  for  some  years,  we  had 
fancied,  in  the  interval,  that  when  Pounce  throws  the  curate’s  hat 
after  him  out  of  the  window,  Fielding  had  represented  Adams  as 
clapping  it  triumphantly  on  his  head,  and  snapping  his  fingers  at  him. 
But  this  is  the  way  with  fine  writers.  In  suggesting  more  than  they 
say,  they  write  more  than  they  do. 


PETER,  POUNCE,  being  desirous  of  having  some  one  to 
whom  he  might  communicate  his  grandeur,  told  the  par- 
son he  would  convey  him  home  in  his  chariot.  This  favor 
was,  by  Adams,  with  many  bows  and  acknowledgments,  ac- 
cepted, though  he  afterwards  said  he  ascended  the  chariot 
rather  that  he  might  not  offend,  than  from  any  desire  of  rid- 
ing in  it,  for  that  in  his  heart  he  preferred  the  pedestrian 
even  to  the  vehicular  expedition. 

The  chariot  had  not  proceeded  far  before  Mr  Adams  ob- 
served it  was  a very  fine  day. 

u Aye,  and  a very  fine  country,  too,”  answered  Pounce. 

“ I should  think  so  more,”  returned  Adams,  “ if  I had  not 
lately  travelled  over  the  Downs,  which  I take  to  exceed  this, 
and  all  other  prospects  in  the  universe.” 


WITH  PARSON  ARAMS. 


107 


xi  A fig  for  prospects,”  answered  Pounce  ; “ one  acre  here 
is  worth  ten  there  ; for  my  part,  I have  no  delight  in  the 
prospect  of  any  land  but  my  own.y 

“ Sir,”  said  Adams,  “you  can  indulge  yourself  in  many 
fine  prospects  of  that  kind.” 

“ I thank  God  I have  a little,”  replied  the  other,  “ with 
which  I am  content,  and  envy  no  man.  I have  a little,  Mr. 
Adams,  with  which  I do  as  much  good  as  I can.” 

Adams  answered,  “That  riches,  without  charity,  were 
nothing  worth  ; for  that  they  were  a blessing  only  to  him 
who  made  them  a blessing  to  others.” 

“ You  and  I,”  said  Peter,  “ have  different  notions  of  char- 
ity. I own,  as  it  is  generally  used,  I do  not  like  the  word, 
nor  do  I think  it  becomes  one  of  us  gentlemen  ; it  is  a mean, 
parson-like  quality  ; though  I would  not  infer  that  many  par- 
sons have  it  neither.” 

“ Sir,”  said  Adams,  “ my  definition  of  charity  is  a generous 
disposition  to  relieve  the  distressed.” 

“ There  is  something  in  that  definition,”  answered  Peter, 
“ which  I like  well  enough  ; it  is,  as  you  say,  a disposition — 
and  does  not  so  much  consist  in  the  act  as  in  the  disposition 
to  do  it  j but,  alas  ! Mr.  Adams,  who  are  meant  by  the 
distressed  ? believe  me,  the  distresses  of  mankind  are  mostly 
imaginary,  and  it  would  be  rather  folly  than  goodness  to  re- 
lieve them.” 

“ Sure,  sir,”  replied  Adams,  “ hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and 
nakedness,  and  other  distresses  which  attend  the  poor,  can 
never  be  said  to  be  imaginary  evils.”- 

“ How  can  any  man  complain  of  hunger,”  said  Pounce, 
in  a country  where  such  excellent  salads  are  to  be  gathered 
almost  in  every  field  ? — or  of  thirst,  where  every  stream  and 
river  produce  such  delicious  potations  ? — and  as  for  cold  and 
nakedness,  they  are  evils  introduced  by  luxury  and  custom. 


108 


PETER  POUNCE'S  DIALOGUE 


A man  naturally  wants  clothes  no  more  than  a horse  or  any 
other  animal  ; and  there  are  whole  nations  who  go  without 
them.  But  these  are  things,  perhaps,  which  you,  who  do  not 
know  the  world ” 

“ You  will  pardon  me,  sir,”  returned  Adams  ; “ I have 
read  of  the  Gymnosophists” 

u A plague  of  your  J ehosaphats,”  cried  Peter  ; u the  great- 
est fault  in  our  constitution  is  the  provision  made  for  the  poor, 
except  that  perhaps  made  for  some  others.  Sir,  I have  not 
an  estate  which  doth  not  contribute  almost  as  much  again  to 
the  poor  as  to  the  land-tax  ; and  I do  assure  you  I expect 
myself  to  come  to  the  parish  in  the  end.” 

To  which  Adams  giving  a dissenting  smile,  Peter  thus 
proceeded  : — “ I fancy,  Mr.  Adams,  you  are  one  of  those  who 
imagine  I am  a lump  of  money  ; for  there  are  many  who  I 
fancy  believe  that  not  only  my  pockets,  but  my  whole  clothes, 
are  lined  with  bank  bills  ; but,  I assure  you,  you  are  all  mis- 
taken ; I am  not  the  man  the  world  esteems  me.  If  I can 
hold  my  head  above  water,  it  is  all  I can.  I have  injured 
myself  by  purchasing;  I have  been  too  liberal  of  my  money. 
Indeed  I fear  my  heir  will  find  my  affairs  in  a worse  situa 
tion  than  they  are  reputed  to  be.  Ah  ! he  will  have  reason  t<3 
wish  I had  loved  money  more  and  land  less.  Pray,  mj 
good  neighbor,  where  should  I have  that  quantity  of  mone^ 
the  world  is  so  liberal  to  bestow  on  me  ? Where  could  I 
possibly,  without  I had  stole  it,  acquire  such  a treasure  ?” 

u Why  truly,”  said  Adams,  “ I have  been  always  of  youi 
opinion  ; I have  wondered,  as  well  as  yourself,  with  what  con 
fidence  they  could  report  such  things  of  you,  which  have  fi 
me  appeared  as  mere  impossibilities  ; for  you  know,  sir,  and 
I have  often  heard  you  say  it,  that  your  wealth  is  of  your  own 
acquisition ; and  can  it  be  credible  that  in  your  short  time 
vou  should  have  amassed  such  a heap  of  treasure  as  these 


WITH  PARSON  ADAMS. 


109 


people  will  have  you  are  worth  ? Indeed,  had  you  inherited 
an  estate  like  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  which  had  descended  in 
your  family  through  many  generations,  they  might  have  had 
a color  for  their  assertions.” 

“ Why,  what  do  they  say  I am  worth  ?”  cries  Peter,  with 
a malicious  sneer. 

“ Sir,”  answered  Adams,  “ I have  heard  some  aver  you 
are  not  worth  less  than  twenty  thousand  pounds.”  At  which 
Peter  frowned. 

“ Nay,  sir,”  said  Adams,  “you  ask  me  only  the  opinion 
of  others ; for  my  own  part,  I have  always  denied  it,  nor 
did  I ever  believe  you  could  possibly  be  worth  half  that 
sum.” 

“ However,  Mr.  Adams,”  said  he,  squeezing  him  by  the 
hand,  “ I would  not  sell  them  all  I am  worth  for  double  that 
sum  ; and  as  to  what  you  believe,  or  they  believe,  I care  not 
a fig.  I am  not  poor,  because  you  think  me  so,  nor  because 
you  attempt  to  undervalue  me  in  the  country.  I know  the 
envy  of  mankind  very  well ; but  I thank  heaven  I am  above 
them.  It  is  true,  my  wealth  is  of  my  own  acquisition.  I 
have  not  an  estate  like  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  that  hath  descend- 
ed in  my  family  through  many  generations  ; but  I know  heirs 
of  such  estates,  who  are  forced  to  travel  about  the  country, 
like  some  people  in  torn  cassocks,  and  might  be  glad  to  ac- 
cept of  a pitiful  curacy,  for  what  I know  ; yes,  sir,  as  shabby 
fellows  as  yourself,  whom  no  man  of  my  figure,  without  that 
vice  of  good-nature  about  him,  would  suffer  to  ride  in  a char- 
tot  with  him.” 

“ Sir,”  said  Adams,  “ I value  not  your  chariot  of  a rush ; 
md  if  I had  known  you  had  intended  to  affront  me,  I would 
have  walked  to  the  world’s  end  on  foot,  ere  I would  have 
accepted  a place  in  it.  However,  sir,  I will  soon  rid  you  of 
that  inconvenience  !”  And  so  saying,  he  opened  the  chariot 


110 


PETER  POUNCE'S  DIALOGUE. 


door,  without  calling  to  the  coachman,  and  leaped  out  into 
the  highway,  forgetting  to  take  his  hat  along  with  him  ; 
which,  however,  Mr.  Pounce  threw  after  him  with  great 
violence. 


fforwB  written  nt  nu  3nn  nt  Brnleif. 


BY  SHENSTONE. 

“ Shall  I not  take,”  said  FalstafF,  with  an  exquisite  duplication 
of  the  personal  pronoun.  “ mine  ease  at  mine  INN  V* 

The  question  might  induce  us  to  fancy,  that  he  had  another 
abode ; that  it  was  as  much  as  to  say,  “ Must  I go  and  encounter  my 
difficulty  at  my  lodgings  V’  But  he  meant  it  as  an  appeal  to  the  ex- 
pectations of  everybody.  Everybody,  the  moment  he  entered  an 
inn,  looked  to  being  thoroughly  at  his  ease ; to  possess  comfort  and 
security  as  surely  as  he  did  the  things  he  paid  for. 

And  this  is  the  feeling  we  all  have  of  an  inn.  It  is  not  comparable 
with  home,  on  the  very  gravest  or  the  very  gayest  occasions  ; much 
less  as  a place  to  reside  in ; but  as  a place  to  visit,  there  is  nothing 
like  it.  It  is  like  being  abroad  and  at  home  at  the  same  time  ; abroad, 
in  respect  to  the  novelty  ; and  at  home,  as  regards  doing  what  we 
please.  We  are  not  sufficiently  used  to  it,  to  feel  a thankless  indiffer 
ence  ; neither  do  we  entertain  such  affection  for  it,  as  converts  interest 
into  anxiety. — But  we  do  it  injustice  in  writing  sentences  about  it. 
There  is  nothing  sententious  at  an  inn  (except  on  the  window-panes) ; 
it  is  only  free  and  easy.  If  you  are  wise,  it  is  with  mirth  : if  you  run 
the  whole  round  of  philosophy  with  some  “ learned  Theban”  of  a 
friend,  it  is  after  dinner,  when  the  blood  is  running  the  finer  round  of 
cheerfulness,  to  which  you  feel  that  the  other  round  is  only  subordi- 
nate. The  top  things  throughout  are  the  dinner,  and  the  inn,  and  the 
reciprocity ; and  you  only  wish  that  all  the  world  were  as  happy  as 
yourselves,  wondering  that  they  are  not  so,  and  that  everybody  does 


1 12  VERSES  WRITTEN  AT  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY. 


not  do  as  he  pleases  upon  the  strength  of  the  Rose  and  Crown’-  and 
universal  benevolence. 

By  an  inn,  however,  we  do  not  mean  any  inn ; no,  not  even  with 
companions  who  can  make  us  forget  everything  else ; for  on  their  ac- 
count also  we  desire  an  inn  perfect  of  its  kind;  and  this,  we  take  it, 
is  an  old  inn  that  has  been  a country-house,  with  at  least  a bit  of  the 
old  garden  to  it,  parterres  of  flowers,  lavender,  &c.,  and  good  sized  old- 
fashioned  rooms,  with  smaller  ones  in  corners,  to  choose  according  as 
you  are  few  or  many,  or  wish  to  be  roomy  or  snug.  Hazlitt,  who  loved 
to  escape  from  his  irritabilities  into  an  inn,  has  noticed  such  a one  in 
a charming  passage.  He  is  speaking  of  the  delight  of  reading  favorite 
authors. 

“ The  last  time,”  he  says,  “ I tasted  this  luxury  in  its  full  perfec- 
tion, was  one  day  after  a sultry  day’s  walk  between  Farnham  and 
Alton.  I was  fairly  tired  out ; I walked  into  an  inn-yard  (I  think  at 
the  latter  place) ; I was  shown  by  the  waiter  to  what  looked  at  first 
like  common  out-houses  at  the  other  end  of  it,  but  they  turned  out  to 
be  a suite  of  rooms,  probably  a hundred  years  old — the  one  I entered 
opened  into  an  old-fashioned  garden,  embellished  with  beds  of  lark- 
spur and  a leaden  Mercury ; it  was  wainscoted,  and  there  was  a grave- 
looking dark-colored  portrait  of  Charles  II.  hanging  up  over  the  tiled 
chimney-piece.  I had  Love  for  Love  in  my  pocket,  and  began  to  read  ; 
coffee  was  brought  in,  in  a silver  coffee-pot ; the  cream,  the  bread  and 
butter,  everything  was  excellent,  and  the  flavor  of  Congreve’s  style 
prevailed  over  all.  I prolonged  the  entertainment  till  a late  hour,  and 
relished  this  divine  comedy  better  even  than  when  I used  to  see  it 
played  by  Miss  Mellon,  as  Miss  Prue ; Bob  Palmer,  as  Tattle;  and 
Bannister  as  honest  Ben.  This  circumstance  happened  just  five  years 
ago,  and  it  seems  like  yesterday.  If  I count  my  life  so,  by  lustres,  it 
will  soon  glide  away ; yet  I shall  not  have  to  repine,  if,  while  it  lasts, 
it  is  enriched  by  a few  such  recollections.”* 

The  Henley  at  which  Shenstone  wrote  his  lines  on  an  inn  was  the 
Henley  on  the  road  to  Stratford-on-Avon.  Johnson  slept  at  it  one 
night  with  Boswell,  and  had  quoted  a stanza  from  the  lines  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  when  they  were  dining  at  an  “ excellent  inn  at 
Chapelhouse.” 

“ We  dined,”  Boswell  says,  “ at  an  excellent  inn  at  Chapelhouse, 
where  he  (Johnson)  expatiated  on  the  felicity  of  England  in  its  taverns 

* Plain  Speaker , vol.  i.  p.  302. 


VERSES  WRITTEN  AT  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY.  113 


and  inns,  and  triumphed  over  the  French  for  not  having,  in  any  per- 
fection, the  tavern  life.  ‘ There  is  no  private  house,’  said  he,  ‘ in  which 
people  can  enjoy  themselves  so  well,  as  at  a capital  tavern.  Let  there 
be  ever  so  great  plenty  of  good  things,  ever  so  much  grandeur,  ever 
so  much  elegance,  ever  so  much  desire  that  everybody  should  be 
easy,  in  the  nature  of  things  it  cannot  be ; there  must  always  be  some 
degree  of  care  and  anxiety.  The  master  of  the  house  is  anxious  to 
entertain  his  guests  ; the  guests  are  anxious  to  be  agreeable  to  him  ; 
and  no  man,  but  a very  impudent  dog  indeed,  can  as  freely  command 
what  is  in  another  man’s  house,  as  if  it  were  his  own.  Whereas,  at  a 
tavern,  there  is  a general  freedom  from  anxiety.  You  are  sure  you 
are  welcome ; and  the  more  noise  you  make,  the  more  trouble  you 
give,  the  more  good  things  you  call  for,  the  welcomer  you  are.  No 
servants  will  attend  you  with  the  alacrity  which  waiters  do,  who  are 
incited  by  the  prospect  of  an  immediate  reward  in  proportion  as  they 
please.  No,  sir;  there  is  nothing  which  has  yet  been  contrived  by 
men,  by  which  so  much  happiness  is  produced  as  by  a good  tavern  or 
inn.’  He  then  repeated  with  great  emotion  Shenstone’s  lines : 

u 1 Whoe’er  has  tra veil’d  life’s  dull  round, 

Where’er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
His  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn.’  ”* 

Johnson  was  so  fond  of  this  little  poem,  that  Miss  Reynolds  (sister 
of  Sir  Joshua)  said  she  had  learnt  it  by  heart  from  hearing  him  re- 
peat it.  Some  exclusive  admirers  of  great  poetry  would  see  nothing 
in  it;  but  let  them  try  to  write  as  good  a one,  and  they  would  dis- 
cover that  some  portion  of  the  poetical  facility  was  necessary  to 
express  and  modulate  even  thoughts  like  these. 

TO  thee,  fair  Freedom  ! I retire, 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din ; 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot  or  humble  Inn. 

’Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I reign  ; 

And  every  health  which  I begin 

* Boswell , Murray’s  Edition,  vol.  vi.  p.  81. 


1 1 4 VERSES  WRITTEN  AT  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY. 


Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne ; 
Such  freedom  crowns  it  at  an  Inn. 

I fly  from  pomp,  I fly  from  plate  ! 

I fly  from  Falsehood’s  specious  grin  ! 
Freedom  I love  and  form  I hate, 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  Inn, 

Here,  waiter,  take  my  sordid  ore, 

Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to  win  j 
It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store, 

It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  Inn. 

Whoe’er  has  travelled  life’s  dull  round, 
Where’er  his  stages  may  have  been, 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome  at  an  Inn. 


/id*  liters  uf  iraq. 

Gray  appears  to  us  to  be  the  best  letter-writer  in  the  language. 
Others  equal  him  in  particular  qualities,  and  surpass  him  in  amount 
of  entertainment ; but  none  are  so  nearly  faultless.  Chesterfield  wants 
heart,  and  even  his  boasted  “ delicacy  Bolingbroke  and  Pope  want 
simplicity ; Cowper  is  more  lively  than  strong ; Shenstone  reminds 
you  of  too  many  rainy  days,  Swift  of  too  many  things  which  he  af- 
fected to  despise,  Gibbon  too  much  of  the  formalist  and  the  litterateur . 
The  most  amusing  of  all  our  letter- writers  are  Walpole  and  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu  ; but  though  they  had  abundance  of  wit,  sense, 
and  animal  spirits,  you  are  not  always  sure  of  their  veracity.  Now, 
“ the  first  quality  in  a companion,’5  as  Sir  William  Temple  observes, 
“ is  truth  and  Gray’s  truth  is  as  manifest  as  his  other  good  quali- 
ties. He  has  sincerity,  modesty,  manliness  (in  spite  of  a somewhat 
effeminate  body),  learning,  good-nature,  playfulness,  a perfect  style ; 
and  if  an  air  of  pensiveness  breathes  over  all,  it  is  only  of  that  re- 
signed and  contemplative  sort  which  completes  our  sympathy  with 
the  writer. 

Mark  what  he  says  in  these  letters  about  his  sitting  in  the  forest ; 
about  Southern ; about  lords  and  their  school-days ; about  Shaftes- 
bury ; about  having  a garding”  of  one’s  own  ; about  Akenside  com- 
pared with  himself ; about  the  Southampton  Abbot,  the  Grand  Duch- 
ess of  Tuscany,  &c.  &c.;  and  about  sunrise — wondering  “ whether 
anybody  ever  saw  it  before,”  he  is  so  astonished  at  their  not  having 
said  more  on  the  subject. 

Gray  is  the  melancholy  Jaques”  of  English  literature,  without 
the  sullenness  or  causticity.  His  melancholy  is  of  the  diviner  sort  of 
Milton  and  Beaumont  and  is  always  ready  to  assume  a kindly  cheer 
fulness. 


116 


. FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


TO  HORACE  WALPOLE.* 

[a  FOX-IIUNTER A poet’s  SOLITUDE SOUTHERN  THE 

DRAMATIST.] 

September,  1737. 

I WAS  hindered  in  my  last,  and  so  could  not  give  you  all 
the  trouble  I would  have  done.  The  description  of  road 
which  your  coach-wheels  have  so  often  honored,  it  would  be 
needless  to  give  you.  Suffice  it,  that  I arrived  safe  at  my 
uncle’s,  who  is  a great  hunter  in  imagination.  His  dogs  take 
up  every  chair  in  the  house,  so  I am  forced  to  stand  at  this 
present  writing  ; and  though  the  gout  forbids  him  galloping 
after  them  in  the  field,  yet  he  continues  to  regale  his  ears 
and  nose  with  their  comfortable  noise  and  stink. f He  holds 
me  mighty  cheap,  I perceive,  for  walking  when  I should  ride, 
and  reading  when  I should  hunt.  My  comfort  amidst  all 
this  is,  that  I have,  at  the  distance  of  half  a mile,  through  a 
green  lane,  a forest  (the  vulgar  call  it  a common),  all  my 
own ; at  least  as  good  as  so,  for  I spy  no  human  thing  in  it 
but  myself.  It  is  a little  chaos  of  mountains  and  precipices 
— mountains,  it  is  true,  that  do  not  ascend  much  above  the 

* Walpole  and  Gray  liad  been  school-fellows  at  Eton  ; and.  though 
differing  greatly  in  some  respects,  had  tastes  alike  in  others,  particu- 
larly a love  for  romantic  fiction  and  Gothic  architecture.  Their  differ- 
ences were  found  to  render  them  unsuitable  as  fellow-travellers,  when 
they  visited  Italy ; but  they  renewed  their  intercourse  at  home,  and 
continued  correspondents  as  long  as  Gr.ay  lived. 

At  the  date  of  the  letter  before  us,  Walpole  was  a youth  of  twenty, 
residing  with  hi3  father,  Sir  Robert,  at  Haughton ; Gray,  twenty-one, 
on  a visit  to  an  uncle,  at  Burnham,  in  Buckinghamshire.  The  reader 
will  observe  the  mature  manliness  of  his  style. 

-f  Some  readers  of  the  present  day  might  suppose  that  coarse  hab- 
its are  here  but  coarsely  described  by  the  delicate  young  poet.  But 
such  language  was  not  considered  coarse  in  the  time  of  Gray. 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY . 


117 


clouds  ; nor  are  the  declivities  quite  so  amazing  as  Dover 
cliff ; but  just  such  hills  as  people  who  love  their  necks  as 
well  as  I do  may  venture  to  climb ; and  crags  that  give  the 
eye  as  much  pleasure  as  if  they  were  dangerous.  Both  vale 
and  hill  are  covered  with  most  venerable  beeches,  and  other 
very  reverend  vegetables,*  that,  like  most  other  ancient  peo- 
ple, are  always  dreaming  out  their  old  stories  to  the  winds : 

“ And  as  they  bow  their  hoary  tops,  relate 
In  murmuring  sounds  the  dark  decrees  of  fate  ; 

While  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow. 

Cling  to  each  leaf,  and  swarm  on  every  bough.” 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  squats  me  I (il  penseroso\  and 
there  I grow  to  the  trunk  for  a whole  morning.  The  timo- 
rous hare  and  sportive  squirrel  gambol  around  me,  like 
Adam  in  paradise,  before  he  had  an  Eve ; but  I think  he  did 
not  use  to  read  Virgil,  as  I coriimonly  do  there.  In  this  sit- 
uation I often  converse  with  my  Horace,  aloud  too  ; that  is, 
talk  to  you  ; but  I do  not  remember  that  I ever  heard  you 
answer  me.  I beg  pardon  for  taking  all  the  conversation  to 
myself ; but  it  is  entirely  your  own  fault.  We  have  old  Mr. 
Southern!  at  a gentleman’s  house,  a little  way  off,  wTho  often 
comes  to  see  us  ; he  is  now  seventy-seven  years  old,  and  has 
almost  wholly  lost  his  memory,  but  is  as  agreeable  as  an  old 
man  can  be ; at  least  I persuade  myself  so  when  I look  at 
him,  and  think  of  Isabella  ’and  Oroonoko.  I shall  be  in 
town  in  about  three  weeks.  Adieu.” 

* 11  Reverend  vegetable”  is  a phrase  of  Steele’s  for  a common-place 
old  man. 

f Southern  lived  nine  years  longer.  When  he  was  a young  man, 
he  knew  Dryden ; and  here  is  Gray,  a youth,  in  company  with  Dry- 
den’s  acquaintance.  It  is  always  pleasant  to  observe  these  links  of 
celebrity. 


.18 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY . 


TO  RICHARD  WEST* 


[BAD  SPIRITS RECOLLECTIONS  OF  HUSBANDS  AND  STATESMEN 

AT  SCHOOL.] 


London,  May  27th,  1742. 


INE,  you  are  to  know,  is  a white  melancholy,  or  rather 


-H-L  leucocholy,f  for  the  most  part ; which,  though  it  seldom 
laughs,  or  dances,  nor  ever  amounts  to  what  one  calls  joy  or 
pleasure,  yet  is  a good  easy  sort  of  a state,  and  qa  ne  laisse 
que  de  s’ amuser.\  The  only  fault  of  it  is  insipidity  ; which 
is  apt  now  and  then  to  give  a sort  of  ennui , which  makes 
one  form  certain  little  wishes  that  signify  nothing.  But 
there  is  another  sort,  black  indeed,  which  I have  now  and 
then  felt,  that  has  somewhat  in  it  like  Tertullian’s  rule  of 
faith,  credo  quia  impossibile  est for  it  believes,  nay,  is 
sure  of  everything  that  is  unlikely,  so  it  be  but  frightful ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  excludes  and  shuts  its  eyes  to  the 
most  possible  hopes,  and  everything  that  is  pleasurable. 
From  this,  the  Lord  deliver  us;  for  none  but  he  and  sun- 
shiny weather  can  do  it.  In  hopes  of  enjoying  this  kind  of 
weather,  I am  going  into  the  country  for  a few  weeks,  but 
shall  be  never  the  nearer  any  society,  so  if  you  have  any 

* Son  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  by  a daughter  of  Bishop 
Burnet.  His  tastes  were  very  like  Gray’s,  and  he  promised  to  attain 
celebrity,  but  died  of  a consumption  the  year  following  the  date  of 
this  letter,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six. 

f Melancholy  signifying  black  choler,  leucocholy  would  be  white 
choler.  Gray  pleasantly  coins  the  word  for  the  occasion. 

X Does  nothing  but  trifle. 

§ I believe  because  it  is  impossible.  Gray  might  have  added  (and 
perhaps  he  meant  to  do  so  by  what  follows)  that  Tertullian,  who  was 
a cruel  bigot,  held  another  rule  of  faith,  equally  reasonable,  namely, 

I believe  because  it  is  horrible. 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


119 


charity  you  will  contrive  to  write.  My  life  is  like  Harry 
the  Fourth’s  supper  of  hens:  “ poulets  d la  broche^ poulets 
en  ragout , poulets  en  hdcliis , poulets  en  fricasees  ;*  reading 
here,  reading  there  ; nothing  but  books  with  different  sauces. 
Do  not  let  me  lose  my  dessert  then  ; for  though  that  be  read- 
ing too,  yet  it  has  a very  different  flavor.  The  May  seems 
to  be  come  since  your  invitation  ;f  and  I promise  to  bask  in 
her  beams,  and  dress  me  in  her  roses : 

“ Et  caput  in  verna  semper  habere  rosa.”f 

I shall  see  Mr.  and  his  wife,  nay,  and  his  child 

too,  for  he  has  got  a boy.  Is  it  not  odd  to  consider  one’s 
contemporaries  in  the  grave  light  of  husband  and  father? 

There  are  my  Lords and , they  are  statesmen  ; do 

not  you  remember  them  dirty  boys  playing  at  cricket  ? As 
for  me,  I am  never  a bit  the  older,  nor  the  bigger,  nor  the 
wiser  than  I was  then ; no,  not  for  having  been  beyond  sea: 
Pray,  how  are  you  ? 


TO  THE  REVEREND  NORTON  NICHOLLS. 

[BANTER  OF  FORMAL  EXCUSES  AND  FINE  EXORDIUMS SOUTH- 
AMPTON  AN  ABBOT SUNRISE.] 

Nov.  19,  1764. 

I RECEIVED  your  letter  at  Southampton  ; and  as  I would 
wish  to  treat  everybody  according  to  their  own  rule  and 
measure  of  good  breeding,  have,  against  my  inclination, 
waited  till  now  before  I answered  it.  purely  out  of  fear  and 

* Roast  chicken,  ragooed  chicken,  hashed  chicken,  fricaseed 
chicken. 

•f  West  had  written  an  ode  to  May,  addressed  to  his  friend. 

$ “ And  have  my  head  forever  in  spring  roses.” 

A line  in  u Propertius lib.  iii.  v.  22. 


1*20 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


respect,  and  an  ingenuous  diffidence  in  my  own  abilities.  It 
you  will  not  take  this  as  an  excuse,  accept  it  at  least  as  a well- 
turned  period,  which  is  always  my  principal  concern.* 

So  I proceed  to  tell  you,  that  my  health  is  much  improv- 
ed by  the  sea  Not  that  I drank  it,  or  bathed  in  it,  as  the 
common  people  do ; no  ! I only  walked  by  it,  and  looked 
upon  it.  The  climate  is  remarkably  mild,  even  in  October 
and  November  ; no  snow  has  been  seen  to  lie  there  for  these 
thirty  years  past ; the  myrtles  grow  in  the  ground  against  the 
houses,  Guernsey  lilies  bloom  in  every  window  ; the  town, 
clean  and  well-built,  surrounded  by  its  old  stone  walls,  with 
their  towers  and  gateways,  stands  at  the  point  of  a peninsula, 
and  opens  full  south  to  an  arm  of  the  sea,  which,  having  form- 
ed two  beautiful  bays  on  each  hand  of  it  stretches  away  in 
direct  view,  till  it  joins  the  British  Channel.  It  is  skirted 
on  either  side  with  gently  rising  grounds,  clothed  with  thick 
wood  ; and  directly  across  its  mouth  rise  the  high  lands  of 
the  Isle  of  Wight  at  distance,  but  distinctly  seen.  In  the 
bosom  of  the  woods  (concealed  from  profane  eyes)  lie  hid  the 
ruins  of  Nettley  Abbey  ; there  may  be  richer  and  greater 
houses  of  religion,  but  the  abbot  is  content  with  his  situation. 
See  there,  at  the  top  of  that  hanging  meadow,  under  the  shade 
of  those  old  trees  that  bend  into  a half-circle  about  it,  he  is 
walking  slowly  (good  man  !)  and  bidding  his  beads  for  the 
souls  of  his  benefactors,  interred  in  that  venerable  pile  that 
lies  beneath  him.  Beyond  it  (the  meadow  still  descending) 
nods  a thicket  of  oaks  that  mask  the  building,  and  have  ex- 
cluded a view  too  garish  and  luxuriant  for  a holy  eye ; only 
on  either  hand  they  leave  an  opening  to  the  blue  glittering 
sea.  Bid  you  not  observe  how,  as  that  white  sail  shot  by  and 
was  lost,  he  turned  and  crossed  himself,  to  drive  the  tempter 

* A banter  probably  of  some  apologetical  formality  on  the  part 
of  Nicholls. 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


121 


from  him  that  had  thrown  that  distraction  in  his  way  ? I 
should  tell  you  that  the  ferryman  who  rowed  me,  a lusty 
young  fellow,  told  me  that  he  would  not  for  all  the  world 
pass  a night  at  the  Abbey  (there  were  such  things  seen  near 
it),  though  there  was  a power  of  money  hid  there.  From 
thence  I went  to  Salisbury,  Wilton,  and  Stonehenge  : but  of 
these  things  I say  no  more.  They  will  be  published  at  the 
University  press. 

P.S. — I must  not  close  my  letter  without  giving  you  one 
principal  event  of  my  history ; which  was,  that  (in  the  course 
of  my  late  tour)  I set  out  one  morning  before  five  o’clock,  the 
moon  shining  through  a dark  and  misty  autumnal  air,  and 
got  to  the  sea-coast  time  enough  to  be  at  the  sun’s  levee.  I 
saw  the  clouds  and  dark  vapors  open  gradually  to  right  and 
left,  rolling  over  one  another  in  great  smoky  wreaths,  and  the 
tide  (as  it  flowed  gently  in  upon  the  sands)  first  whitening, 
then  slightly  tinged  with  gold  and  blue,  and  all  at  once  a 
little  line  of  insufferable  brightness  that  (before  I can  write 
these  five  words)  was  grown  to  half  an  orb,  and  now  to  a 
whole  one  too  glorious  to  be  distinctly  seen.  It  is  very  odd 
it  makes  no  figure  on  paper  ; yet  I shall  remember  it  as  long 
as  the  sun,  or  at  least  as  long  as  I endure.  I wonder  whether 
anybody  ever  saw  it  before  ? I hardly  believe  it. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

[a  MOTHER SCENERY  OF  KENT.] 

1765. 

IT  is  a long  time  since,  that  I heard  you  wTere  gone  in  hast 
into  Yorkshire  on  account  of  your  mother’s  illness  ; an 
the  same  letter  informed  me  that  she  was  recovered,  other 
wise  I had  then  wrote  to  you  only  to  beg  you  would  take 
care  of  her,  and  to  inform  you  that  I had  discovered  a thing 
6 


122 


FIVE  JjETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


very  little  known,  which  is,  that  in  one’s  whole  life  one  can 
never  have  any  more  than  a single  mother.  You  may  think 
this  is  obvious,  and  (what  3-011  call)  a trite  observation.  You 
are  a green  gosling  ! I was  at  the  same  age  (very  near)  as 
wise  as  3rou ; and  yet  I never  discovered  this  (with  full  evi- 
dence and  conviction,  I mean)  till  it  was  too  late.  It  is  thir- 
teen years  ago,  and  seems  but  as  yesterday,  and  every  day  I 
live  it  sinks  deeper  into  my  heart.  Many  a corollary  could 
I draw  from  this  axiom  for  your  use  (not  for  my  own),  but  I 
will  leave  you  the  merit  of  doing  it  for  3Tourself.  Pray  tell 
me  how  your  health  is  ; I conclude  it  perfect,  as  I hear  }tou 
offered  yourself  as  a guide  to  Mr.  Palgrave  into  the  Sierra 
Morena  of  Yorkshire.  For  me,  I passed  the  end  of  May,  and 
all  June,  in  Kent,  not  disagreeably,  In  the  west  part  of  it, 
from  every  eminence,  the  eye  catches  some  long  reach  "ff  the 
Thames  or  Medway,  with  all  their  shipping : in  the  east,  the 
sea  breaks  in  upon  3tou,  and  mixes  its  white  transient  sails, 
and  glittering  blue  expanse,  with  the  deeper  and  brighter 
green  of  the  woods  and  corn.  This  sentence  is  so  fine  I am 
quite  ashamed,  but  no  matter  ! You  must  translate  it  into 
prose.  Palgrave,  if  he  heard  it,  would  co^er  his  face  with 
his  pudding  sleeve.^  I do  not  tell  3Tou  of  the  great  and 
small  beasts,  and  creeping  things  innumerable,  that  I met 
with,  because  you  do  not  suspect  that  this  world  is  inhabited 
by  anything  but  men,  and  women,  and  clergy,  and  such  two- 
legged  cattle.  Now  I am  here  again,  vevy  disconsolate  and 
all  alone,  for  Mr.  Brown  is  gone,  and  the  cares  of  this  world 
are  coming  thick  upon  me  ; you,  I hope,  are  better  off,  riding 
and  walking  in  the  woods  of  Studley,  &c  &c.  I must  not 
wish  for  you  here  5 besides,  I am  going  to  town  at  Michae 
mas,  by  no  means  for  amusement. 

* He  was  a clergyman ; rector  of  Palgrave  and  Thrandeston,  in 
Suffolk. 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


123 


TO  THE  SAME. 


[HAVING  A GARDEN  OF  one’s  OWN SHENSTONE SECOND  BAN- 

TER ON  FORMAL  APOLOGIES. 


Pembroke  College,  June  24th,  1769. 


ND  so  you  have  a garden  of  your  own,  and  you  plant  and 


-tA  transplant,  and  are  dirty  and  amused.  Are  not  you 
ashamed  of  yourself?  Why,  I have  no  such  thing,  you 
monster ; nor  ever  shall  be  either  dirty  or  amused  as  long  as 
I live.^  My  gardens  are  in  my  windows,  like  those  of  a 
lodger  up  three  pair  of  stairs  in  Petticoat  Lane,  or  Camomile 
Street,  and  they  go  to  bed  regularly  under  the  same  roof  that 
I do.  Dear  ! how  charming  it  must  be  to  walk  out  in  one’s 
own  garding , and  sit  on  a bench  in  the  open  air,  with  a foun- 
tain and  leaden  statue,  and  -a  rolling-stone,  and  an  arbor  i 
Have  a care  of  sore  throats  though,  and  the  agoe. 

However,  be  it  known  to  you,  though  I have  no  garden, 
I have  sold  my  estate,!  and  got  a thousand  guineas  and 
fourscore  pounds  a-year  for  my  old  aunt,  and  a twenty-pound 
prize  in  the  lottery,  and  Lord  knows  what  arrears  in  the 
treasury,  and  am  a rich  fellow  enough,  go  to  ; a fellow  that 
hath  had  losses,  and  one  that  hath  two  gowns,  and  every- 
thing handsome  about  him  and  in  a few  days  shall  have 
new  window-curtains  : are  you  avized  of  that  ? Aye,  and  a 
new  mattress  to  lie  upon. 

* This  pleasantry  becomes  the  more  charming,  when  read  in  con- 
nection with  some  previous  letters  to  Nicholls,  which  were  in  a strain 
of  serious  and  somewhat  remonstrating  advice  on  carelessness  in  his 
affairs,  though  full  of  the  most  touching  kindness. 

t Some  houses  on  the  west  side  of  Hand  Alley,  in  Cornhill. 

f From  Dogberry’s  speech  in  Much  ado  about  Nothing , Act  iv.  sc.  2 


124 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


My  Ode* * * §  Las  been  rehearsed  again  and  again,  and  the 
scholars  have  got  scraps  by  heart.  I expect  to  see  it  torn 
piecemeal  in  the  North  Briton, f before  it  is  born.  If  you 
will  come,  you  shall  see  it,  and  sing  in  it  amidst  a chorus 
from  Salisbury  and  Gloucester  music-meeting,  great  names 
there,  and  all  well  versed  in  Judas  Maccabaeus.J  I wish  it  was 
once  over,  for  then  I immediately  go  for  a few  days  to  Lon- 
don. and  so  with  Mr.  Brown  to  Aston,  though  I fear  it  will 
rain  the  whole  summer,  and  Skiddaw  will  be  invisible  and 
inaccessible  to  mortals. 

I have  got  De  la  Lande’s  Voyage  through  Italy  in  eight 
volumes.  He  is  a member  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and 
pretty  good  to  read.  I have  read,  too,  an  octavo  volume  of 
Shenstone’s  Letters.  Poor  man  ! he  wTas  always  wishing  for 
money,  for  fame,  and  other  distinctions  ; and  his  whole  phi- 
losophy consisted  in  living  against  his  will  in  retirement,  and 
in  a place  which  his  taste  had  adorned,  but  which  he  only 
enjoyed  when  people  of  note  came  to  see  and  commend  it. 
His  correspondence  is  about  nothing  else  but  this  place  and 
his  own  writings,  with  two  or  three  neighboring  clergymen 
who  wrote  verses  too.§ 

* “ On  the  Installation  of  the  Duke  of  Grafton  as  Chancellor  of  the 
University  of  Cambridge.” 

t A periodical  publication  now  forgotten. 

% Handel’s  Oratorio  of  that  name. 

§ This  is  a true  view  of  the  weak  side  of  Shenstone’s  character; 
and  Gray,  perhaps,  confined  himself  to  that  side  of  it  for  some  purpose 
connected  with  his  correspondent.  Otherwise  Shenstone  must  inevi- 
tably have  reaped  great  enjoyment  from  the  lovely  and  surprising 
landscapes  he  created  on  his  estate,  which  were  the  admiration  of  the 
best  judges,  and  the  site  of  his  own  gentle  verse-making.  Shenstone, 
like  most  people,  was  a different  man  under  different  phases  of  health. 
Gray  was  a warm  admirer  of  the  poem  in  these  volumes,  The  School- 
mistress. He  pronounced  it  “ excellent  in  its  kind,  and  masterly.” 


FIVE  LETTERS  OF  GRAY. 


125 


I have  just  found  the  beginning  of  a letter,  which  some- 
body had  dropped : I should  rather  call  it  first-thoughts  for 
the  beginning  of  a letter,  for  there  are  many  scratches  and 
corrections.  As  I cannot  use  it  myself  (having  got  a begin- 
ning already  of  my  own),  I send  it  for  your  use  on  some 
great  occasion. 

a Dear  Sir, 

“ After  so  dong  silence,  the  hopes  of  pardon,  and  prospect 
of  forgiveness,  might  seem  entirely  extinct,  or  at  least  very 
remote,  was  I not  truly  sensible  of  your  goodness  and  can 
dor,  which  is  the  only  asylum  that  my  negligence  can  fly  to, 
since  every  apology  would  prove  insufficient  to  counterbalance 
it,  or  alleviate  my  fault : how  then  shall  my  deficiency  pre- 
sume to  make  so  bold  an  attempt,  or  be  able  to  suffer  the 
hardships  of  so  rough  a campaign  ?”  &c.  &c.  &c  # 

* See  note  * p.  125. 


Stimantogra  nf  (Moating  a $nste  fur  |Htttorra. 

BY  JONATHAN  RICHARDSON. 

Jonathan  Richardson  was  a portrait-painter  and  critic  in  the  time 
of  Pope,  whom  he  knew.  He  was  esteemed  in  his  art,  and  still  more 
for  his  knowledge  and  admiration  of  art  in  others.  He  wrote  treatises 
on  Painting,  notes  on  Milton,  a poem  in  Nichols's  Collection , evincing 
his  inquiring  and  amiable  turn  of  mind,  called  an  Address  to  the  Morn- 
ing Star ; and  he  was  famous  for  his  industry,  early-rising,  and  the 
affection  existing  between  him  and  his  son.  His  writings  have  perhaps 
created  more  enthusiasm  for  pictures  than  those  of  any  other  man  in 
England.  He  is  not  an  accomplished  writer,  like  Sir  Joshua  ; nor  has 
he  the  depth  of  Hazlitt ; much  less  any  of  the  transcendental  insights 
of  the  promising  critical  genius  who  has  lately  made  his  appearance 
among  us  under  the  title  of  the  “ Oxford  Graduate.”  His  style  is  col- 
loquial, to  a degree  of  slovenliness : and,  with  the  tendencies  natural 
perhaps  to  his  art  in  a professional  point  of  view,  he  is  too  much  in- 
clined to  confound  prosperity  with  success.  But  he  wTould  interest  us 
less  if  he  did  not  pour  forth  all  he  thought.  Candor,  honesty,  good- 
ness, vivacity,  and  a considerable  amount  of  taste  and  knowledge, 
constitute  the  charms  of  his  wTriting.  Sir  Joshua  respected  him ; 
Pope,  who  dabbled  in  painting  himself,  was  attached  to  him ; Hazlitt 
quoted  him  with  delight. 

The  following  remarks  are  on  a subject  which  is  yet  far  too  little 
appreciated,  but  which  is  destined,  we  suspect,  to  play  a great  and 
delightful  part  in  the  universal  world  of  civilization.  “ Knowledge  is 
power but  it  is  not  only  power  to  command  (which  is  the  sense  in 


CULTIVATING  A TASTE  FOR  PICTURES . 


12? 


which  the  axiom  is  generally  taken),  it  is  also  power  to  enjoy.  Every- 
body who  knows  anything  of  anything,  knows  how  much  that  knowl- 
edge adds  to  the  sum  of  his  ordinary  satisfaction ; what  strength  it 
gives  him,  what  ennui  and  vacuity  it  saves  him.  The  smallest  bota- 
nist or  geologist  knows  it,  by  the  way-side ; the  least  meteorologist, 
as  he  gazes  at  a rack  of  clouds.  Pictures  make  themselves  known  at 
once,  more  or  less ; yet  nobody,  who  has  not  in  some  measure  thought 
on  the  subject  as  Richardson  here  teaches  to  think,  has  any  concep- 
tion how  much  is  to  be  got  out  of  a good  picture,  the  more  he  knows 
of  the  art,  and  of  nature.  He  learns  to  know  everything  which  the 
painter  intends ; everything  which  he  intimates ; and  thus  to  discover 
volumes  of  meaning  and  entertainment  where  others  see  little  but  a 
colored  page.  And  the  more  we  know  of  pictures,  the  more  we  come 
to  value  engravings,  and  to  know  what  companions  they  can  be  made  ; 
what  little  treasures  of  art  we  may  possess,  even  in  those  faint  repre- 
sentations, compared  with  the  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  the  finest  paint- 
ings by  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

And  then  there  is  the  reflex  of  Painting  itself  on  Nature ; the 
grateful  light  which  she  throws  in  her  turn  on  the  source  of  her  in- 
spiration ; so  that  the  more  we  know  of  objects  on  canvas,  the  more 
we  learn  to  know  of  the  objects  themselves,  and  thus  become  qualified 
to  discern  pictures  in  everything,  and  to  be  critics  of  our  instructor. 
But  Richardson  has  touched  on  this  point  also,  and  the  reader  must 
not  be  detained  from  him.  We  would  only  beg  leave  to  add,  by  way 
of  individual  experience  in  such  matters,  without  pretending  to  any 
remarkable  insight  into  them,  either  natural  or  acquired,  that  Mr. 
Hazlitt,  whom  we  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing,  converted  us  from  a 
wrong  admiration  of  white  cottages  in  landscapes  to  the  right  one  of 
the  honest  old  red  ; that  Mr.  Haydon  (whom  we  will  not  call  “ unfor- 
tunate,” even  for  his  end,  knowing  what  pleasure  he  got  out  of  his 
art  in  life)  was  the  first,  in  our  youth,  to  give  us  an  eye  to  the  atti- 
tudes and  groups  of  people  in  company  ; and  that  we  have  reason  to 
regard  the  having  been  conversant  with  a house  full  of  paintings 
during  childhood  as  one  of  the  blessings  of  our  existence.  We  have 
never  since  entered  a room  of  that  sort  without  a tendency  to  hush 
and  move  softly,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  things  above  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature,  of  spirits  left  behind  them  by  great  men,  looking  at 
us  with  divine  eyes,  or  informing  the  most  beautiful  visions  of  nature 
with  art  as  wonderful.  And  we  are  so. 


128 


ADVANTAGES  OF  CULTIVATING 


117 HAT  is  beautiful  and  excellent,  is  naturally  adapted  to 
' » please : but  all  beauties  and  excellencies  are  not,  natu- 
rally, seen.  Most  gentlemen  see  pictures  and  drawings  as  the 
generality  of  people  see  the  heavens  in  a clear,  starry  night ; 
they  perceive  a sort  of  beauty  there,  but  such  a one  as  pro- 
duces no  great  pleasure  in  the  mind  ; but  when  one  considers 
the  heavenly  bodies  as  other  worlds,  and  that  there  are  an 
infinite  number  of  these  in  the  empire  of  God  (Immensity), 
and  worlds  which  our  eyes,  assisted  by  the  best  glasses,  can 
never  reach,  and  so  far  remote  from  the  most  distant  of  what 
we  see,  that  these  visible  ones  are  as  it  were  our  neighbors, 
as  the  continent  of  France  is  to  Great  Britain  ; when  one 
considers  farther,  that  as  there  are  inhabitants  on  this  conti- 
nent, though  we  see  them  not  when  we  see  that , it  is  alto- 
gether unreasonable  to  imagine  that  those  innumerable  worlds 
are  uninhabited  and  desert ; there  must  be  beings  there,  some 
perhaps  more,  others  Tess  noble  and  excellent  than  man. 
When  one  thus  views  this  vast  prospect,  the  mind  is  other- 
wise affected  than  before,  and  feels  a delight  which  common 
notions  never  can  administer.  So  those  who  at  present  can- 
not comprehend  there  can  be  such  pleasure  in  a good  picture 
or  drawing  as  connoisseurs  pretend  to  find,  may  learn  to  see 
the  same  thing  themselves ; their  eyes  being  once  opened, 
they  may  be  said  to  obtain  a new  sense ; and  new  pleasures 
flow  in  as  often  as  the  objects  of  that  superinduced  sight 
present  themselves,  which  (to  people  of  condition  especially) 
very  frequently  happens,  or  may  be  procured,  whether  here 
at  home,  or  in  their  travels  abroad.  When  a gentleman  has 
learned  to  see  the  beauties  and  excellencies  that  are  really 
in  good  pictures  and  drawings  and  which  may  be  learnt  by 
conversing  with  such,  and  applying  himself  to  the  considera- 
tion of  them,  he  will  look  upon  that  with  joy  which  he  now 
passes  over  with  very  little  pleasure,  if  not  with  indifference ; 


A TASTE  FOR  PICTURES. 


129 


nay,  a sketch,  a scrabble  of  the  hand  of  a great  master,  will 
be  capable  of  administering  to  him  a greater  degree  of  pleas- 
ure than  those  who  know  it  not  by  experience  can  have  any 
conception  of.  Besides  the  graceful  and  noble  attitudes,  the 
beauty  of  colors  and  forms,  and  the  fine  effects  of  light  and 
shadow,  which  none  sees  as  a connoisseur  does,  such  a one 
enters  farther  than  any  other  can  do  into  the  beauties  of  the 
invention,  expression,  and  other  parts  of  the  work  he  is  con- 
sidering. He  sees  strokes  of  art,  contrivances,  expedients,  a 
delicacy  and  spirit,  that  others  see  not,  or  very  imperfectly. 

He  sees  what  force  of  mind  the  great  masters  had  to 
conceive  ideas;  what  judgment  to  see  things  beautifully,  or 
to  imagine  beauty  from  what  they  saw  ; and  what  a power 
their  hands  were  endued  withal,  in  a few  strokes  and  with 
ease,  to  show  to  another  what  themselves  conceived. 

What  is  it  that  gives  us  pleasure  in  reading  a history  or 
poem,  but  that  the  mind  is  thereby  furnished  with  a variety 
of  images?  And  what  distinguishes  some  authors,  and  sets 
them  above  the  common  level,  but  their  knowing  how  to 
raise  their  subject?  The  Trojan  or  Peleponnesian  wars 
would  never  have  been  thought  of  by  us,  if  a Homer  or 
Thucydides  had  not  told  the  stories  of  them,  who  knew  how 
to  do  it  so  as  to  fill  the  minds  of  their  readers  with  great  and 
delightful  ideas.  He  who  converses  with  the  works  of  the 
best  masters  is  always  reading  such  admirable  authors ; and 
his  mind  consequently,  in  proportion,  entertained  and  delight- 
ed with  the  histories,  fables,  characters,  the  ideas  of  magnifi- 
cent buildings,  fine  prospects,  &c. 

And  he  sees  these  things  in  those  different  lights  which 
the  various  manners  of  thinking  of  the  several  masters  sets 
them ; he  sees  them  as  they  are  represented  by  the  capri- 
cious but  vast  genius  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci ; the  fierce  and 
gigantic  one  of  Michael  Angelo  ; the  divine  and  polite  one 


130 


ADVANTAGES  OF  CULTIVATING 


of  Raphael ; the  poetical  fancy  of  Guido  ; the  angelical  mind 
of  Corregio,  or  Parmegiano  ; the  haughty,  sullen,  but  accom- 
plished Annibal,  the  learned  Augustino  Caracci. 

A connoisseur  hath  this  further  advantage,  that  he  not 
only  sees  beauties  in  pictures  and  paintings,  which  to  common 
eyes  are  invisible ; but  he  learns  by  these  to  see  such  in  na- 
ture, in  the  exquisite  forms  and  colors,  the  fine  effects  of 
lights,  and  shadows,  and  reflections,  which  in  her  are  always 
to  be  found,  and  from  whence  he  hath  a pleasure  which  other- 
wise he  could  never  have  had,  and  which  none  with  untaught 
eyes  can  possibly  discern  : he  has  a constant  pleasure  of  this 
kind  even  in  the  most  common  things,  and  the  most  familiar 
to  us,  so  that  what  people  usually  look  upon  with  the  utmost 
indifference,  creates  an  home-felt  delight  in  his  mind.  The 
noblest  works  of  Raphael,  the  most  ravishing  music  of  Han- 
del, the  most  masterly  strokes  of  Milton,  touch  not  people 
who  are  without  discernment. 

So,  the  beauties  themselves  of  those  all-perfect  works  of 
the  great  author  of  nature  are  not  seen  but  by  enlightened 
eyes,  that  is,  those  eyes  wdiich  are  taught  to  see ; to  those 
they  appear  far  otherwise  than  before  they  were  ; so,  so  far 
otherwise  ! that  one  sees  through  a glass  darkly  (through  the 
gross  medium  of  ignorance) ; the  other , that  of  a connoisseur, 
as  wThen  the  angel  had  removed  the  film  from  Adam’s  eyes, 
and  purged  with  euphrasy  and  rue,  the  visual  nerve,  seeth 
beauty  divine  and  human,  as  far  as  human  may,  as  we  hope 
to  see  everything,  still  nearer  to  its  true  beauty  and  perfec- 
tion, in  a better  state ; when  we  shall  u see  what  eye 
hath  not  seen,  neither  hath  it  entered  the  heart  of  man  to 
conceive.” 

By  conversing  with  the  works  of  the  best  masters,  our 
imaginations  are  impregnated  with  great  and  beautiful 
images,  which  present  themselves  on  all  occasions  in 


A TASTE  FOR  PICTURES. 


131 


reading  an  author,  or  ruminating  upon  some  great  action, 
ancient  or  modern  ; everything  is  raised,  everything  improved 
from  what  it  would  have  been  otherwise.  Nay,  those  lovely 
images  with  which  our  minds  are  thus  enriched,  arise  there 
continually,  and  give  us  pleasure,  with  or  without  any  par- 
ticular application. 

What  is  rare  and  curious,  exclusive  of  any  other  consider- 
ation, we  naturally  take  pleasure  in ; because,  as  variable  as 
our  circumstances  are,  there  is  so  much  of  repetition  in  life 
that  more  variety  is  still  desirable.  The  works  of  the  great 
masters  would  thus  recommend  themselves  to  us,  though 
they  had  not  that  transcendent  excellency  that  they  have  ; 
they  are  such  as  are  rarely  seen  ; they  are  the  works  of  a 
small  number  of  the  species  in  one  little  country  of  the  world, 
and  in  a short  space  of  time.  But  their  excellency  being  put 
into  the  scale  makes  the  rarity  of  them  justly  considerable. 
They  are  the  works  of  men  like  whom  none  are  now  to  be 
found,  and  when  there  will  be,  God  only  knows  ! 

“ Art  et  guides,  tout  est  dans  les  Champs  Elysees.” 

La  Fontaine. 

What  the  old  man  Melanthius  says  of  Polygnotus  (as  he 
is  cited  by  Plutarch  in  the  life  of  Cimon),  may,  with  a little 
alteration,  be  applied  to  these  men  in  general ; it  is  thus  al- 
ready translated : 

“ This  famous  painter,  at  his  own  expense, 

Gave  Athens  beauty  and  magnificence  ; 

New  life  to  all  the  heroes  did  impart ; 

Embellish’d  all  the  temples  with  his  art ; 

The  splendor  of  the  state  restor’d  again  ; 

And  so  he  did  oblige  both  gods  and  men.” 

What  still  adds  to  the  rarity  of  the  excellent  works  we 


132 


ADVANTAGES  OF  CULTIVATING 


are  speaking  of  is.  their  number  must  necessarily  diminish 
by  sudden  accidents,  or  the  slow,  but  certain  injuries  of 
time. 

Another  pleasure  belonging  to  connoissance  is  when  we 
find  anything  particular  and  curious  ; as  the  first  thoughts 
of  a master  for  some  remarkable  picture  ; the  original  of  a 
work  of  a great  master,  the  copy  of  which  we  have  already 
by  some  other  considerable  hand ; a drawing  of  a’  picture,  or 
after  an  antique  very  famous,  or  which  is  now  lost ; or  when 
we  make  some  new  acquisition  upon  reasonable  terms,  chiefly 
when  we  get  for  ourselves  something  we  much  desired,  but 
could  not  hope  to  be  masters  of ; when  we  make  some  new 
discovery,  something  that  improves  our  knowledge  in  connois- 
sance or  painting,  or  otherwise  ; and  abundance  of  such  like 
incidents,  and  which  very  frequently  happens  to  a diligent 
connoisseur. 

The  pleasure  that  arises  from  a knowledge  of  hands  is 
not  like,  or  equal  to  that  of  the  other  parts  of  the  business 
of  a connoisseur,  but  neither  is  this  destitute  of  it.  When 
one  sees  an  admirable  piece  of  art,  it  is  part  of  the  connois- 
seur to  know  to  whom  to  attribute  it,  and  then  to  know  his 
history  ; which  arises,  I hope,  from  a natural  justice  in  the 
human  mind  that  loves  and  desires  to  pay  a little  tribute  of 
gratitude  where  it  discovers  it  to  be  due  to  that  merit  of 
another  which  it  is  actually  enjoying.  The  custom  of  put- 
ting the  author’s  portrait  or  life  at  the  beginning  of  his  book, 
is  kindly  giving  us  an  opportunity  of  doing  this. 

When  one  is  considering  a picture  or  a drawing,*  and  at 
the  same  time  thinks  this  was  done  by  him  who  had  man}T 

* The  passage  here  commencing  is  one  enormously  long  sen- 
tence, continued  to  the  words  “ these  reflections,”  at  p.  140.  It 
may  be  supposed,  however,  to  be  very  agreeably  poured  forth  in  the 
heat  of  conversation. 


A TASTE  FOR  PICTURES. 


133 


sxtraordinary  endowments  of  body  and  mind,  and  was  withal 
a,  virtuous  man  and  a fine  gentleman  in  his  whole  life,  and 
still  more  at  his  death,  expiring  in  the  arms  of  one  of  the 
greatest  princes  of  that  age,  Francis  I.,  king  of  France,  who 
loved  him  as  a friend  ;# — another  is  of  him  who  lived  a long 
and  happy  life  beloved  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  and 
many  others  of  the  first  princes  of  Europe  ;f — when  one  has 
another  in  his  hand,  and  thinks  that  this  was  done  by  one 
who  so  excelled  in  three  arts,  as  that  any  one  of  them,  in  that 
degree  he  possessed  them  all,  had  rendered  him  worthy  of 
immortality,  and  who  moreover  dared  to  contend  with  his 
sovereign  (one  of  the  haughtiest  popes  that  ever  was)  upon 
a slight  offered  to  him,  and  extricated  himself  with  honor 
— another  is  the  work  of  that  great  self-formed,  authentic 
genius,  who  was  the  model  of  supernatural  grace  ; who  alone 
painted  heaven,  as  surely  it  is ; and  hath  represented  to  hu- 
man weakness  the  angelic  nature  ; this,  too,  by  inspiration  ! 
not  having  had  any  master,  or  none  but  whom  he  left  quite 
out  of  sight  in  the  earliest  progresses  of  his  divine  pencil ; he 
even  never  saw  the  works  of  other  great  masters,  having  always 
confined  himself  to  his  native  Lombardy,  except  one  single 
one  of  Raphael,  and  a great  one  indeed  that  was,  his  St.  Ce- 
cilia when  brought  to  Bologna  ; and  then,  after  considering 
it  with  long  attention,  and  the  admiration  it  deserved,  he  had 
the  spirit  (and  he  had  a right  to  that  spirit)  to  say,  “ Well,  I 
am  a painter,  too  he  was  so  little  known  to  the  rest  of 
Italy,  that  he  passed  till  very  lately,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  for  a low,  poor,  indigent  creature,  from  the  ill-informa- 
tion or  malice  of  Yasari,  always  prejudiced  against  the  Lom- 
bard painters,  when  his  character  was  rescued  from  its  affect- 
ed obscurity,  and  his  noble  birth  and  connections,  and  splen- 


* Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
$ Michael  Angelo. 


t Titian. 

§ Corregio. 


134 


ADVANTAGES  OF  CULTIVATING 


did  wealth,  asserted  boyond  all  possibility  and  dispute  by  the 
indefatigable  industry  of  Ludiovico  Antonio  David,  a Milan- 
ese painter,  and  published  at  Bologna  ; — another  we  shall 
consider  as  the  work  of  him  who  restored  painting  when  it 
was  almost  sunk  ; of  him  whom  his  art  made  honorable  ; but 
who  neglecting  and  despising  greatness  with  a sort  of  cynical 
pride,  was  treated  suitably  to  the  figure  he  gave  himself,  not 
to  his  intrinsic  merit ; which  not  having  philosophy  enough 
to  bear,  it  broke  his  heart  another  is  performed  by  one, 
who  (on  the  contrary)  was  a fine  gentleman,  and  of  great 
magnificence,  and  was  much  honored  by  his  own  and  foreign 
princes  ; who  was  a courtier,  a statesman,  and  a painter  ; and 
so  much  all  these,  that  when  he  acted  in  either  character, 
that  seemed  to  be  his  business,  and  the  others  his  diversion  ;f 
— when  one  thus  reflects,  besides  the  pleasure  arising  from 
the  beauties  and  excellencies  of  the  work,  the  fine  ideas  it 
gives  us  of  natural  things,  the  noble  way  of  thinking  one  finds 
in  it,  and  the  pleasing  thoughts  it  may  suggest  to  us,  an  ad- 
ditional pleasure  results  from  these  reflections. 

But,  oh  ! the  pleasure  ! when  a connoisseur  and  lover  of 
art  has  before  him  a picture  or  drawing,  of  which  he  can  say, 
this  is  the  hand,  these  the  thoughts  of  him  who  was  one  of 
the  politest,  best-natured  gentlemen  that  ever  was  ; who  was 
beloved  and  assisted  by  the  greatest  wits,  and  the  greatest 
men  then  at  Rome,  at  a time  when  politeness  and  all  those 
arts  which  make  life  taste  truly  agreeable,  were  carried  to  a 
greater  height  than  at  any  period  since  the  reign  of  Augus- 
tus : of  him  who  lived  in  great  fame,  honor,  and  magnificence, 
and  died  universally  lamented  ; and  even  missed  a cardinal’s 
hat  only  by  dying  a few  months  too  soon  ; but  was,  above 
all,  highly  esteemed  and  favored  by  two  popes,  the  only  ones 


Caravaggio  ? 


f Rubens. 


A TASTE  TOR  PICTURES . 135 

who  filled  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  in  his  time  ; — one  (in  short) 
who  could  have  been  a Leonardo,  a Michael  Angelo,  a Ti- 
tian, a Corregio,  a Parinegiano,  an  Annibal,  a Rubens,  or  any 
other  when  he  pleased,  but  none  of  them  could  ever  have 
been  a Raphael 


(Me  Bit  h Distant  ^rnsjiert  nf  Clan  College, 

Tins  poem  has  been  noticed  in  our  preface,  and  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  Long  Story.  It  is  full  of  thought,  tenderness,  and  music, 
and  should  make  the  writer  beloved  by  all  persons  of  reflection,  es- 
pecially those  who  know  what  it  is  to  visit  the  scenes  of  their  school- 
days. They  may  not  all  regard  them  in  the  same  melancholy  light; 
but  the  melancholy  light  will  cross  them,  and  then  Gray’s  lines  will 
fall  in  upon  the  recollection,  at  once  like  a bitter  and  a balm. 


YE  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade, 

Where  grateful  science  still  adores 
Her  Henry’s  holy  shade  ; 

And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor’s  heights  th’  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver-winding  way. 

Ah,  happy  hills,  ah,  pleasing  shade, 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain, 


ODE  ON  A PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE. 


137 


Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray’d, 
A stranger  yet  to  pain  ? 

I feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  sonl  they  seem  to  soothe, 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a second  spring. 

Say,  father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 
Full  many  a sprightly  race, 

Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 

Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  ? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthrall  $ 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle’s  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball '{ 

While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent, 
Their  murmuring  labors  ply 
’Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 
To  sweeten  liberty, 

Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry ; 

Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 

They  hear  a voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest ; 


138 


ODE  ON  A DISTANT  PROSPECT 


The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed. 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 

Theirs,  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue, 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigor  born  ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 

The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 
That  fly  th’  approach  of  morn. 

Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play  ! 

No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  : 

Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  misfortune’s  baleful  train  ; 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 

Disdainful  anger,  pallid  fear, 

And  shame  that  skulks  behind  ; 

Or  pining  love  shall  waste  their  youth 
Or  jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart , 
And  envy  wan,  and  faded  care, 
Grim-visag’d  comfortless  despair, 

And  sorrow’s  piercing  dart 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 


OF  ETON  COLLEGE. 


139 


To  bitter  scorn  a sacrifice. 

And  grinning  infamy  ; 

The  stings  of  falsehood  those  shall  try, 

And  hard  unkindness’  alter’d  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forc’d  to  flow  ; 
And  keen  remorse,  with  blood  defil’d, 

And  moody  madness  laughing  wild 
Amidst  severest  woe. 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 
A grisly  troop  are  seen, 

The  painful  family  of  death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen  ; 

This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  laboring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage  : 

Lo,  poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow  consuming  age. 

To  each  his  sufferings  ; all  are  men, 
Condemn’d  alike  to  groan  ; 

The  tender  for  another’s  pain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 

Yet,  ah  ! why  should  they  know  their  fate  ! 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  : 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. — 

No  more.  Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

’Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


SI  long  Itonj. 

The  Long  Story  is  so  entitled  in  deprecation  of  any  tedium  which 
the  reader  might  experience  in  perusing  a personal  adventure  of  the 
author’s  who  was  too  sensitive  on  such  points.  lie  pleasantly  pre- 
tends that  he  has  omitted  five  hundred  stanzas.  The  occasion  of  the 
poem  was  a visit  paid  him  by  two  ladies,  who  did  him  the  honor  of 
being  their  own  introducers.  Gray  was  at  the  house  of  his  aunt,  in 
his  native  village  of  Stoke  Pogeis,  near  Windsor.  His  mother  was 
there  also.  The  Viscountess  Cobham,*  who  possessed  the  mansion- 
house  of  the  place,  wished  to  make  the  poet’s  acquaintance.  The  la- 
dies in  question  undertook  to  break  the  ice  for  her.  Not  finding  him 
at  home,  they  left  a card,  intimating  that  they  came  to  tell  him  of  the 
good  health  of  a Lady  Brown,  a friend  of  his.  Shy  and  sequestered 
as  he  was,  the  poet  returned  the  visit ; and  he  takes  the  opportunity 
of  describing  the  house,  and  complimenting  its  inmates. 

Walpole  said  of  Gray,  that,  however  well  he  might  write  in  moods 
altogether  serious,  his  real  forte  was  pleasantry.  Undoubtedly  Gray’s 
pleasantry  is  of  a more  original  cast  than  his  seriousness  ; less  indebt- 
ed to  that  of  his  predecessors.  Yet  there  is  reason  to  believe  that 
every  thought  which  he  transferred  to  paper  had  passed  through  his 
own  mind,  though  his  love  of  the  writings  of  others  too  often  induced 
him  to  express  it  in  their  words.  Half  his  verses  are  centos  ; and  yet 
we  feel  them  to  be  rather  sympathies  than  echoes.  His  Ode  on  the 
Prospect  of  Eton  College , and  his  Elegy  in  a Country  Churchyard , are 
the  regrets  of  all  his  fellow-mortals,  and  of  himself.  Gray  was  a 
scholarly,  thoughtful,  affectionate  man  j a little  effeminate  in  his  hab- 

* Sister  of  Pope’s  Lord  Cobham,  and  subsequently  Countess  Temple. 


A LONG  STORY * 


141 


its,  owing  to  a feeble  constitution ; but  manly  in  Ms  judgments,  and 
superior  to  every  kind  of  sophistry  and  meanness* 

Gray’s  pleasantry  came  to  him  through  his  melancholy,  assisted  by 
the  general  delicacy  of  his  perceptions,  and  his  willingness  to  be 
pleased.  Though  a little  too  cautious  of  committing  his  dignity,  he 
was  not  one  of  those  who  “ take  a calamity  for  an  affront.”  He  was 
willing  to  give  and  to  receive  pleasure,  and  this  is  a disposition  which 
Nature  is  sure  to  reward.  In  the  Long  Story  we  see  him  hesitating 
at  first  whether  he  should  go  to  the  “ great  house.”  He  was  not  only 
loth  to  be  disturbed  in  his  sequestered  habits  \ he  was  jealous  of  what 
might  be  thought  of  his  humble  independence,  and  his  footing  as  a 
“gentleman.”  (He  was  the  son  of  a scrivener.)  But  good-nature 
prevails,  not  unaccompanied  by  a willingness  to  find  himself  among 
ladies  of  rank  and  elegance-  and  though  he  might  as  well  have 
dropped  the  circumstance  of  his  secreting  himself,  he  has  made  a 
charming  picture  both  of  the  interview  of  the  ladies  with  his  mother 
and  aunt  (whom  lie  pretends  they  pinched  and  “ rummaged”  like 
fairies),  and  of  the  great  Elizabethan  house,  with  its  old  associa- 
tions,— things  in  which  he  delighted ; for  he  was  an  antiquary  with  all 
the  zest  of  a poet*  The  whole  poem  is  full  of  picturesqueness,  fancy, 
and  wit. 

IN  Britainrs  isle,  no  matter  where, 

An  ancient  pile  of  building  stands ; 

The  Huntingdons  and  Hattons  there 
Employ’d  the  power  of  fairy  hands 

To  raise,  the  ceiling’s  fretted  height, 

Each  panel  in  achievements  clothing, 

Rich  windows  that  exclude  the  light, 

And  passages  that  lead  to  nothing.^ 

Full  oft  within  the  spacious  walls, 

When  he  had  fifty  winters  o’er  him, 

* A line  that  has  become  a favorite  quotation  with  critics,  es- 
pecially as  applied  to  passages  in  music. 


142 


A LONG  STORY. 


My  grave  Lord-Keeper  led  the  brawls  ;* 

The  seal  and  maces  danc’d  before  him. 

Ilis  bushy  beard  and  shoe-strings  green, 

His  high-crown’ d hat  and  satin  doublet, 

Mov’d  the  stout  heart  of  England’s  Queen, 

Though  Pope  and  Spaniard  could  not  trouble  it 

What,  in  the  very  first  beginning? 

Shame  of  the  versifying  tribe  ! 

Your  history  wdiither  are  you  spinning? 

Can  you  do  nothing  but  describe  ? 

A house  there  is  (and  that’s  enough) 

From  whence  one  fatal  morning  issues 

A brace  of  warriors,  not  in  buff, 

But  rustling  in  their  silks  and  tissues. 

The  firstf  came  cap-a-pie  from  France, 

Her  conquering  destiny  fulfilling, 

Whom  meaner  beauties  eye  askance, 

And  vainly  ape  her  art  of  killing. 

* The  brawl  ( branle ) was  a fashionable  dance.  The  Lord  Keeper 
is  Sir  Christopher  Hatton,  a handsome  man,  who  is  said  to  have  danced 
himself  into  the  office.  It  is  unquestionable  that  he  made  way  some- 
how into  the  heart  of  Elizabeth.  Dancing,  however,  appears  to  have 
been  so  much  admired  by  this  great  queen,  that  another  and  graver 
lawyer,  Sir  John  Davies,  no  mean  philosophical  poet,  who  was  also 
one  of  her  most  devoted  panegyrists,  divided  his  leisure  thoughts  be- 
tween metrical  treatises  on  the  Art  of  Dancing  and  on  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul.  Biographers,  by  the  way,  tell  us,  that  Hatton  never 
possessed  a house  at  Stoke  Pogeis.  Gray,  however,  says  he  did ; and 
there  he  is  in  consequence,  living  forever, 
t Lady  Schaub. 


A LONG-  STORY. 


143 


The  other  Amazon*  kind  lieav’n 

Had  arm’d  with  spirit,  wit,  and  satire ; 

*>ut  Cobham  had  the  polish  giv’n, 

And  tipp’d  her  arrows  with  good-nature. 

To  celebrate  her  eyes,  her  air — 

Coarse  panegyrics  would  but  tease  her : 

Melissa  is  her  nom  cle  guerre ; 

Alas  ! whc  would  not  wish  to  please  her  ? 

With  bonnet  blue,  and  capuchin, 

And  aprons  long,  they  hid  their  armor, 

And  veil’d  their  weapons  bright  and  keen 
In  pity  to  the  country  farmer. 

Fame  in  the  shape  of  Mr.  P 1 

(By  this  time  all  the  parish  know  it) 

Had  told  that  thereabouts  there  lurk’d 
A wicked  imp  they  call’d  a poet.f 

Who  prowl’d  the  country  far  and  near, 

Bewitch’d  the  children  of  the  peasants, 

Dry’d  up  the  cows  and  lam’d  the  deer, 

And  suck’d  the  eggs  and  kill’d  the  pheasants. 

My  Lady,  heard  their  joint  petition, 

Swore,  by  her  coronet  and  ermine, 

She’d  issue  out  her  high  commission 
To  rid  the  manor  of  such  vermin. 

* Miss  Harriett  Speed.  She  was  a descendant  of  the  historian, 
and  became  the  wife  of  the  Sardinian  ambassador,  the  Count  de  Yeri. 

•j*  Mr.  P was  a Mr.  Part  or  Purkt.  He  is  said  to  have  been 

displeased  with  this  allusion, — Mason  thinks  unreasonably ; but  no- 
body likes  to  be  thought  a gossip.  Mason  knew  that  Gray  was  a 
good-natured  man • but  of  this.  Mr.  P.  might  not  have  been  so  sure. 


144 


A LONG  STORY. 


The  heroines  undertook  the  task ; 

Thro’  lanes  unknown,  o’er  stiles  they  ventur’d, 
Happ’d  at  the  door,  nor  stay’d  to  ask, 

But  bounce  into  the  parlor  enter’d. 

The  trembling  family  they  daunt ; 

They  flirt,  they  sing,  they  laugh,  they  tattle ; 
Rummage  his  mother,  pinch  his  aunt, 

And  up  stairs  in  a whirlwind  rattle. 

Each  hole  and  cupboard  they  explore, 

Each  creek  and  cranny  of  his  chamber, 

Run  hurry-skurry  round  the  floor, 

And  o’er  the  bed  and  tester  clamber ; 

Into  the  drawers  and  china  pry, 

Papers  and  books,  a huge  imbroglio ; 

Under  a tea-cup  he  might  lie, 

Or  creas’d,  like  dogs-ears,  in  a folio. 

On  the  first  marching  of  the  troops, 

The  Muses,  hopeless  of  his  pardon, 

Conveyed  him  underneath  their  hoops 
To  a small  closet  in  the  garden. 

So  Rumor  says  (who  will,  believe) ; 

But  that  they  left  the  door  ajar, 

Where  safe,  and  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 

He  heard  the  distant  din  of  war. 

Short  was  his  joy ; he  little  knew 
The  power  of  magic  was  no  fable  ; 

Out  of  the  window  whisk  they  flew, 

But  left  a spell  upon  the  table. 


A LONG  STORY. 


145 


The  words  too  eager  to  unriddle, 

The  poet  felt  a strange  disorder ; 

Transparent  bird-lime  form’d  the  middle, 
And  chains  invisible  the  border. 

So  cunning  was  the  apparatus, 

The  powerful  pot-hooks  did  so  move  him, 

That  will-he,  nill-he,  to  the  great  house 
He  went  as  if  the  devil  drove  him. 

Yet  on  his  way  (no  sign  of  grace, 

For  folks  in  fear  are  apt  to  pray) 

To  Phoebus  he  preferred  his  case, 

And  begg’d  his  aid  that  dreadful  day. 

The  godhead  would  have  back’d  his  quarrel ; 
But,  with  a blush,  on  recollection, 

Own’d  that  his  quiver  and  his  laurel 

’Gainst  four  such  eyes  were  no  protection. 

The  court  was  set,  the  culprit  there  ; 

Forth  from  their  gloomy  mansion  creeping 

The  Lady  Janes  and  Joans  repair, 

And  from  the  gallery  stand  peeping  : 

Such  as  in  silence  of  the  night 

Come  (sweep)  along  some  winding  entry 

(Styack*  has  often  seen  the  sight), 

Or  at  the  chapel-door  stand  sentry  ; 

In  peaked  hoods  and  mantles  tarnish’d, 

Sour  visages  enough  to  scare  ye, 

High  dames  of  honor  once  that  garnish’d 
The  drawing-room  of  fierce  Queen  Mary  ! 

* The  housekeeper.  * 

7 


146 


A LONG  STORY. 


The  peeress  comes  ; the  audience  stare, 

And  doff  their  hats  with  due  submission  ; 

She  curt’sies,  as  she  takes  her  chair, 

To  all  the  people  of  condition. 

The  bard  with  many  an  artful  fib 
Had  in  imagination  fenc’d  him, 

Disprov’d  the  arguments  of  Squib,* 

And  all  that  Groomf  could  urge  against  him 

But  soon  his  rhetoric  forsook  him, 

When  he  the  solemn  hall  had  seen  ; 

A sudden  fit  of  ague  shook  him — 

He  stood  as  mute  as  poor  Macleane.J 

Yet  something  he  was  heard  to  mutter 
u How  in  the  park,  beneath  an  old  tree, 

Without  design  to  hurt  the  butter, 

Or  any  malice  to  the  poultry, 

He  once  or  twice  had  penn’d  a sonnet, 

Yet  hop’d  that  he  might  save  his  bacon  ; 

Numbers  would  give  their  oath  upon  it, 

He  ne’er  was  for  a conj’rer  taken.” 

The  ghostly  prudes  with  hagged  face 
Already  had  condemn’d  the  sinner  ; 

My  Lady  rose,  and  with  a grace — 

She  smil’d,  and  bid  him  come  to  dinner. 

u Jesu  Maria  ! Madam  Bridget, 

Why  what  can  the  Viscountess  mean  ?” 

* The  groom  of  the  chamber.  f The  steward. 

X A famous  highwayman  who  had  just  been  executed 


A LONG  STORY. 


147 


Cry?d  the  square  hoods  in  woful  fidget ; 

“ The  times  are  alter’d,  quite  and  clean  : 

u Decorum’s  turn’d  to  mere  civility  ! 

Her  air  and  all  her  manners  show  it. 
Commend  me  to  her  affability  ! 

Speak  to  a commoner  and  poet !” 

[ Here  500  Stanzas  are  lost.\ 

And  so  God  save  our  noble  King, 

And  guard  us  from  long-winded  lubbers, 
That  to  eternity  would  sing, 

And  keep  my  lady  from  her  rubbers. 


!ir  Engtr  h ifnnirltq. 

from  addison’s  papers  in  the  u spectator.” 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  one  of  those  truthful  types  of  charac- 
ter, which,  though  created  by  the  mind  of  man,  yet,  by  the  ordination 
of  Nature  herself  (for  Nature  includes  art  among  her  works),  outlasts 
the  successive  generations  of  flesh  and  blood  which  it  represents. 
The  individuals  perish,  and  leave  no  memorial ; nay,  we  hardly  care 
to  know  them  while  living.  We  might  find  them  tiresome.  We  feel 
that  Nature  has  done  well  in  making  them  ; we  are  grateful  for  the 
race  ; especially  on  behalf  of  others,  and  of  the  poor ; but  we  do  not 
particularly  see  the  value  of  their  society  ; when,  lo  ! in  steps  one  of 
Nature’s  imitators— called  men  of  genius — and,  by  the  mere  fact  of 
producing  a likeness  of  the  species  to  the  mind’s  eye,  enchants  us  for- 
ever both  with  it  and  himself.  A little  philosophy  may  easily  explain 
this  ; but  perhaps  a little  more  may  still  leave  it  among  the  most  in- 
teresting of  mysteries. 

We  have  said  a word  elsewhere  (see  Gradations  of  Clubs ) respect- 
ing the  first  invention  of  Sir  Roger  by  Steele,  and  the  compatibility 
of  his  early  fopperies  with  a genuine  simplicity.  But  unquestionably 
Addison  took  up  the  invention  of  Steele,  and  enriched  and  completed 
it  in  a way  that  left  the  invention  itself  at  a distance.  The  whole  of 
the  following  papers  are  from  his  exquisite  pen.  They  render  com- 
ment superfluous.  One  has  nothing  to  do  but  repeat  passages,  and 
admire  them. 

SIR  ROGER’S  HOUSEHOLD  ESTABLISHMENT. 

TTAVING  0ften  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir 
H Roger  de  Coverley  to  pass  away  a month  with  him  in 
the  country,  I last  week  accompanied  him  thither,  and  am 


HOUSEHOLD  ESTABLISHMENT. 


149 


settled  with  him  for  some  time  at  his  country-house,  where  I 
intend  to  form  several  of  my  ensuing  speculations.  Sir  Roger, 
who  is  very  well  acquainted  with  my  humor,  lets  me  rise  and 
go  to  bed  when  I please,  dine  at  his  own  table  or  in  my  own 
chamber  as  I think  fit,  sit  still  and  say  nothing  without  bid- 
ding me  be  merry.  When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country 
come  to  see  him,  he  only  shows  me  at  a distance.  As  I have 
been  walking  in  his  fields  I have  observed  them  stealing  a 
sight  of  me  over  a hedge,  and  have  heard  the  knight  desir- 
ing them  not  to  let  me  see  them,  for  that  I hated  to  be 
stared  at. 

I am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger’s  family,  because  it 
consists  of  sober  and  staid  persons  ; for,  as  the  knight  is  the 
best  master  in  the  world,  he  seldom  changes  his  servants  ; 
and  as  he  is  beloved  by  all  about,  his  servants  never  care 
for  leaving  him  ; by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in  years, 
and  grown  old  with  their  master.  You  would  take  his  valet- 
de-chambre  for  his  brother  ; his  butler  is  gray-headed,  his 
groom  is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that  I have  ever  seen,  and 
his  coachman  has  the  looks  of  a privy-councillor.  You  see 
the  goodness  of  the  master  even  in  the  old  house-dog,  and  in 
a gray  pad  that  is  kept  in  the  stable  with  great  care  and  ten- 
derness, out  of  regard  for  his  past  services,  though  he  has  been 
useless  for  several  years. 

I could  not  but  observe,  with  a great  deal  o£  pleasure,  the 
joy  that  appeared  in  the  countenances  of  these  ancient  do- 
mestics upon  my  friend’s  arrival  at  his  country-seat.  Some 
of  them  could  not  refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old 
master  ; every  one  of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  something 
for  him,  and  seemed  discouraged  if  they  were  not  employed. 
At  the  same  time,  the  good  old  knight,  with  a mixture  of  a 
father  and  the  master  of  a family,  tempered  the  inquiries 
after  his  own  affairs  with  several  kind  questions  about  them- 


150 


SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLETS 


selves.  This  humanity  and  good-nature  engages  everybody 
to  him,  so  that  when  he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of  them,  all  his 
family  are  in  good-humor,  and  none  so  much  as  the  person  he 
diverts  himself  with.  On  the  contrary,  if  he  coughs,  or  be- 
trays any  infirmity  of  old  age,  it  is  easy  for  a stander-by  to 
observe  a secret  concern  in  the  looks  of  all  his  servants. 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  particular  care 
of  his  butler,  who  is  a very  prudent  man,  and,  as  well  as  the 
rest  of  his  fellow-servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing 
me,  because  they  have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of  me  as 
his  particular  friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting  himself 
in  the  woods  or  the  fields,  is  a very  venerable  man  who  is 
ever  with  Sir  Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  house  in  the  nature 
of  a chaplain  above  thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a per- 
son of  good  sense  and  some  learning  ; of  a very  regular  life 
and  obliging  conversation  : he  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and 
knows  that  he  is  very  much  in  the  old  knight’s  esteem,  so 
that  he  lives  in  the  family  rather  as  a relation  than  as  a de- 
pendant. 

I have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers,  that  my  friend 
Sir  Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  an 
humorist ; and  that  his  virtues,  as  well  as  imperfections,  are, 
as  it  were,  tinged  by  a certain  extravagance  which  makes 
them  particularly  his , and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of 
other  men.  This  cast  of  mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  inno- 
cent in  itself,  so  it  renders  his  conversation  highly  agreeable, 
and  more  delightful  than  the  same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue 
would  appear  in  their  ordinary  colors.  As  I was  walking  with 
him  last  night,  he  asked  me  how  I liked  the  good  man  I have 
just  now  mentioned  ? And  without  staying  for  an  answer  told 
me,  u That  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and 
Greek  at  his  own  table  ; for  which  reason  he  desired  $ par- 


HOUSEHOLD  ESTABLISHMENT. 


151 


ticular  friend  of  his  at  the  University  to  find  him  out  a 
clergyman  rather  of  plain  sense  than  much  learning  ; of  a 
good  aspect,  a clear  voice,  a sociable  temper,  and,  if  possible, 
a man  that  understood  a little  of  backgammon.  My  friend,” 
says  Sir  Roger,  “ found  me  out  this  gentleman,  who,  besides 
the  endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me,  a good 
scholar,  though  he  does  not  show  it.  I have  given  him  the 
parsonage  of  the  parish  ; and,  because  I know  his  value,  have 
settled  upon  him  a good  annuity  for  life.  If  he  outlives  me, 
he  shall  find  that  he  was  higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps 
he  thinks  he  is.  He  has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years,  and 
though  he  does  not  know  I have  taken  notice  of  it,  has  never 
in  all  that  time  asked  anything  of  me  for  himself,  though  he  is 
every  day  soliciting  me  for  something  in  behalf  of  one  or  other 
of  my  tenants  his  parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a law-suit 
in  the  parish  since  he  has  lived  among  them  : if  any  dispute 
arises,  they  apply  themselves  to  him  for  the  decision  ; if  they  do 
not  acquiesce  in  his  judgment,  which  I think  never  happened 
above  once  or  twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first 
settling  with  me,  I made  him  a present  of  all  the  good  sermons 
that  have  been  printed  in  English,  and  only  begged  of  him, 
that  every  Sunday  he  would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the 
pulpit.  Accordingly,  he  has  digested  them  into  such  a series, 
that  they  follow  one  another  naturally,  and  make  a continued 
series  of  practical  divinity.” 

As  Sir  Roger  was  going  on  in  his  story,  the  gentleman 
we  were  talking  of  came  up  to  us  ; and  upon  the  knight 
asking  him  who  preached  to-morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday 
night),  told  us  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph*  in  the  morning,  and 
Dr.  South  in  the  afternoon.  He  then  showed  us  his  list  of 
preachers  for  the  year,  where  I saw,  with  a great  deal  of 
pleasure,  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Bishop  Saunderson,  Dr.  Bar- 

* Dr.  Fleetwood,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Ely. 


1 52 


SIR  ROGER  EE  COVERLETS 


row,  Dr.  Galamy,  with  several  living  authors  who  have  pub* 
lished  discourses  of  practical  divinity.  I no  sooner  saw  this 
venerable  man  in  the  pulpit,  but  I very  much  approved  of  my 
friend’s  insisting  upon  the  qualifications  of  a good  aspect  and 
a clear  voice  ; for  I was  so  charmed  with  the  gracefulness  of 
his  figure  and  delivery,  as  well  as  with  the  discourses  he  pro- 
nounced, that  I think  I never  passed  any  time  more  to  my 
satisfaction.  A sermon  repeated  after  this  manner,  is  like 
the  composition  of  a poet  in  the  mouth  of  a graceful  actor. 

I could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country  clergy 
would  follow  this  example  ; and,  instead  of  wasting  their 
spirits  in  laborious  compositions  of  their  own,  would  endeav- 
or after  a handsome  elocution,  and  all  those  other  talents 
that  are  proper  to  enforce  what  has  been  penned  by  greater 
masters.  This  would  not  only  be  more  easy  to  themselves, 
but  more  edifying  to  the  people. 


SIR  ROGER’S  BEHAVIOR  IN  CHURCH  ON  A 
SUNDAY. 

I AM  always  very  well  pleased  with  a country  Sunday,  and 
think,  if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a human 
institution,  it  would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have  been 
thought  of  for  the  polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It 
is  certain  the  country  people  would  soon  degenerate  into  a 
kind  of  savages  and  barbarians,  were  there  not  such  frequent 
returns  of  a stated  time,  in  which  the  whole  village  meet  to- 
gether with  their  best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanliest  habits, 
to  converse  with  one  another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear 
their  duties  explained  to  them,  and  join  together  in  adora- 
tion of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sunday  clears  away  the  rust 
of  the  whole  week,  not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their  minds 


BEHAVIOR  IN  CHURCH . 


153 


the  notions  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts  both  sexes  upon  ap- 
pearing in  their  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting  all  such 
qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a figure  in  the  eye  of  the 
village.  A country  fellow  distinguishes  himself  as  much  in 
the  churchyard  as  a citizen  does  upon  ’Change,  the  whole 
parish  politics  being  generally  discussed  there,  either  after 
sermon  or  before  the  bell  rings. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a good  church-man,  has  beau- 
tified the  inside  of  his  church  with  several  texts  of  his  own 
choosing  : he  has  likewise  given  a handsome  pulpit-cloth,  and 
railed  in  the  communion-table  at  his  own  expense.  He  has 
often  told  me,  that  at  his  coming  to  his  estate  he  found  his 
parishioners  very  irregular  ; and  that,  in  order  to  make  them 
kneel  and  join  in  the  responses,  he  gave  every  one  of  them 
a hassock  and  a common-prayer  book  ; and  at  the  same  time 
employed  an  itinerant  singing-master,  who  goes  about  the 
country  for  that  purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly  in  the 
tunes  of  the  psalms  ; upon  which  they  now  very  much  value 
themselves,  and  outdo  most  of  the  country  churches  that  I 
have  ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congregation,  he 
keeps  them  in  very  good  order,  and  will  suffer  nobody  to 
sleep  in  it  besides  himself ; for  if  by  chance  he  has  been  sur- 
prised into  a short  nap  at  sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it 
he  stands  up  and  looks  about  him,  and  if  he  sees  anybody 
else  nodding,  either  wakes  them  himself  or  sends  his  servants 
to  them.  Several  other  of  the  old  knight’s  particularities 
break  out  upon  these  occasions  ; sometimes  he  will  be  length- 
ening out  a verse  in  the  singing-psalms,  half  a minute  after 
the  rest  of  the  congregation  have  done  with  it ; sometimes, 
when  he  is  pleased  with  the  matter  of  his  devotion,  he  pro- 
nounces Amen  three  or  four  times  to  the  same  prayer  ; and 
sometimes  stands  up  when  everybody  else  is  on  their  knees. 


154 


SIR  ROGER  EE  COVERLETS 


to  count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of  his  tenants  aie 
missing. 

I was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear  my  old 
friend,  in  the  midst  of  the  service,  calling  out  to  one  John 
Matthews  to  mind  what  he  was  about,  and  not  disturb  the 
congregation.  This  John  Matthews,  it  seems,  is  remarkable 
for  being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time  was  kicking  his 
heels  for  his  diversion.  This  authority  of  the  knight,  though 
exerted  in  that  odd  manner  which  accompanies  him  in  all 
circumstances  of  life,  has  a very  good  effect  upon  the  parish, 
who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see  anything  ridiculous  in  his 
behavior ; besides  that  the  general  good  sense  and  worthi- 
ness of  his  character  makes  his  friends  observe  these  little 
singularities  as  foils  that  rather  set  off  than  blemish  his  good 
qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  presumes  to 
stir  till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of  the  church.  The  knight 
walks  down  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel  between  a double 
row  of  his  tenants,  that  stand  bowfing  to  him  on  each  side, 
and  every  now  and  then  inquires  how  such  an  one’s  wife,  or 
mother,  or  son,  or  father  do,  whom  he  does  not  see  at  church  ; 
which  is  understood  as  a secret  reprimand  to  the  person  that 
is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that  upon  a catechizing 
day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased  with  a boy  that  an- 
swers well,  he  has  ordered  a bible  to  be  given  him  next  day 
for  his  encouragement ; and  sometimes  accompanies  it  with 
a flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir  Roger  has  likewise 
added  five  pounds  a-year  to  the  clerk’s  place  : and  that  he 
may  encourage  the  young  fellows  to  make  themselves  per- 
fect in  the  church-service,  has  promised,  upon  the  death  of 
the  present  incumbent,  who  is  very  old,  to  bestow  it  accord- 
ing to  merit. 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  GIPSIES. 


155 


The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  and  his  chap- 
lain, and  their  mutual  concurrence  in  doing  good,  is  the 
more  remarkable,  because  the  very  next  village  is  famous 
for  the  differences  and  contentions  that  rise  between  the  par- 
son and  the  squire,  who  live  in  a perpetual  state  of  war. 
The  parson  is  always  preaching  at  the  squire,  and  the  squire, 
to  be  revenged  on  the  parson,  never  comes  to  church.  The 
squire  has  made  all  his  tenants  atheists  and  tithe-stealers  ; 
while  the  parson  instructs  them  every  Sunday  in  the  dignity 
of  his  order,  and  insinuates  to  them,  in  almost  every  sermon, 
that  he  is  a better  man  than  his  patron.  In  short,  matters 
are  come  to  such  an  extremity,  that  the  squire  has  not  said 
his  prayers  either  in  public  or  private  this  half-year  ; and 
that  the  parson  threatens  him,  if  he  does  not  mend  his  man- 
ners, to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the  whole  congregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in  the  country, 
are  very  fatal  to  the  ordinary  people  ; who  are  so  used  to  be 
dazzled  with  riches,  that  they  pay  as  much  deference  to  the 
understanding  of  a man  of  an  estate,  as  of  a man  of  learning  ; 
and  are  very  hardly  brought  to  regard  any  truth,  how  impor- 
tant soever  it  may  be,  that  is  preached  to  them,  when  they 
knowr  there  are  several  men  of  five  hundred  a-year  who  do 
not  believe  it. 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  GIPSIES. 

A S I was  yesterday  riding  out  in  the  fields  with  my  friend 
Sir  Roger,  we  saw  at  a little  distance  from  us  a troop  of 
gipsies.  Upon  the  first  discovery  of  them,  my  friend  was  in 
some  doubt  whether  he  should  not  exert  the  justice  of  the 
peace  upon  such  a band  of  lawless  vagrants,  but  not  having 
his  clerk  with  him,  who  is  a necessary  counsellor  on  these  oc 


156 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  GIPSIES. 


casions,  and  fearing  that  his  poultry  might  fare  the  worse  for 
it,  he  let  the  thought  drop  ; but,  at  the  same  time,  gave  me 
a particular  account  of  the  mischief  they  do  in  the  country, 
in  stealing  people’s  goods  and  spoiling  their  servants.  “ If  a 
stray  piece  of  linen  hangs  on  the  hedge/’  says  Sir  Roger, 
“ they  are  sure  to  have  it ; if  the  hog  loses  his  way  in  the 
field,  it  is  ten  to  one  but  he  becomes  their  prey  ; our  geese 
cannot  live  in  peace  for  them  ; if  a man  prosecutes  them  with 
severity,  his  hen-roost  is  sure  to  pay  for  it : they  generally 
straggle  into  these  parts  about  this  time  of  the  year  ; and  set 
the  heads  of  our  servant-maids  so  agog  for  husbands,  that  we 
do  not  expect  to  have  any  business  done  as  it  should  be 
whilst  they  are  in  the  country.  I have  an  honest  dairy-maid 
who  crosses  their  hands  with  a piece  of  silver  every  summer, 
and  never  fails  being  promised  the  handsomest  young  fellow 
in  the  parish  for  her  pains.  Your  friend  the  butler  has  been 
fool  enough  to  be  seduced  by  them,  and  although  he  is  sure 
to  lose  a knife,  a fork,  or  a spoon  every  time  his  fortune  is 
told  him,  generally  shuts  himself  up  in  the  pantry  with  an  old 
gipsy  for  about  half  an  hour  once  in  a twelvemonth.  Sweet- 
hearts are  the  things  they  live  upon,  which  they  bestow  very 
plentifully  upon  all  those  that  apply  themselves  to  them.  You 
see  now  and  then  some  handsome  jades  amongst  them  ; the 
sluts  have  very  often  white  teeth  and  black  eyes.” 

Sir  Roger  observing  that  I listened  with  great  attention 
to  his  account  of  a people  who  were  so  entirely  new  to  me, 
told  me,  that  if  I would,  they  should  tell  us  our  fortunes. 
As  I was  very  well  pleased  with  the  knight's  proposal,  we 
rid  up  and  communicated  our  hands  to  them.  A Cassandra 
of  the  crew,  after  having  examined  my  lines  very  diligently, 
told  me,  that  I loved  a pretty  maid  in  a corner,  that  I was 
a good  woman’s  man,  with  some  other  particulars,  which  I 
do  not  think  proper  to  relate.  My  friend  Sir  Roger  alight* 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  GIPSIES. 


157 


ed  from  his  horse,  and  exposed  his  palm  to  two  or  three  that 
stood  by  him  ; they  crumpled  it  into  all  shapes,  and  dili- 
gently scanned  every  wrinkle  that  could  be  made  in  it  ; 
when  one  of  them,  who  was  older  and  more  sun-burnt  than 
the  rest,  told  him,  that  he  had  a widow  in  his  line  of  life  : 
upon  which  the  knight  cried,  “ Go,  go,  you  are  an  idle  bag- 
gage j”  and  at  the  same  time  smiled  upon  me.  The  gipsy, 
finding  he  was  not  displeased  in  his  heart,  told  him,  after  a 
farther  inquiry  into  his  hand,  that  his  true-love  was  constant, 
and  that  she  should  dream  of  him  to-night ; my  old  friend 
cried  pish,  and  bid  her  go  on.  The  gipsy  told  him  that  he 
was  a bachelor,  but  would  not  be  so  long ; and  that  he  was 
dearer  to  somebody  than  he  thought : the  knight  still  repeat- 
ed “ she  was  an  idle  baggage,”  and  bid  her  go  on.  “ Ah, 
master,”  says  the  gipsy,  “ that  roguish  leer  of  yours  makes  a 
pretty  woman’s  heart  ache  ; you  han’t  that  simper  about  the 
mouth  for  nothing.”  The  uficouth  gibberish  with  which  all 
this  was  uttered,  like  the  darkness  of  an  oracle,  made  us  more 
attentive  to  it.  To  be  short,  the  knight  left  the  money  with 
her  that  he  had  crossed  her  hand  with,  and  got  up  again  on 
his  horse. 

As  we  were  riding  away,  Sir  Roger  told  me,  that  he  knew 
several  sensible  people  who  believed  these  gipsies  now  and 
then  foretold  very  strange  things  ; and  for  half  an  hour  to- 
gether appeared  more  jocund  than  ordinary.  In  the  height 
of  his  good-humor,  meeting  a common  beggar  on  the  road 
who  was  no  conjurer,  as  he  went  to  relieve  him  he  found  his 
pocket  was  picked  ; that  being  a kind  of  Palmistry  at  which 
this  race  of  vermin  are  very  dexterous. 

I might  here  entertain  my  reader  with  historical  remarks 
on  this  idle  profligate  people,  who  infest  all  the  countries  of 
Europe,  and  live  in  the  midst  of  governments  in  a kind  of 
Commonwealth  by  themselves.  But  instead  of  entering  into 


158 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  GITSIES. 


observations  of  this  nature,  I shall  fill  the  remaining  part  of 
my  paper  with  a story  which  is  still  fresh  in  Holland,  and 
was  printed  in  one  of  our  monthly  accounts,  about  twenty 
years  ago.  “ As  the  Trekschuyt  or  Hackney-boat  which  car- 
ries passengers  from  Leyden  to  Amsterdam,  was  putting  off, 
a boy  running  along  the  side  of  the  canal  desired  to  be  taken 
in,  which  the  master  refused,  because  the  lad  had  not  quite 
money  enough  to  pay  his  fare.  An  eminent  merchant,  being 
pleased  with  the  looks  of  the  boy,  and  secretly  touched  with 
compassion  towards  him,  paid  the  money  for  him,  and  order- 
ed him  to  be  taken  on  board.  Upon  talking  with  him  after- 
wards, he  found  that  he  could  speak  readily  in  three  or  four 
languages,  and  learned  upon  further  examination  that  he  had 
been  stolen  away  when  he  was  a child  by  a gipsy,  and  had 
rambled  ever  since  with  a gang  of  those  strollers  up  and 
down  several  parts  of  Europe.  It  happened  that  the  mer- 
chant, whose  heart  seems  to  have  inclined  towards  the  boy 
by  a secret  kind  of  instinct,  had  himself  lost  a child  some 
years  before.  The  parents,  after  a long  search  for  him,  gave 
him  for  drowned  in  one  of  the  canals  with  which  that  country 
abounds ; and  the  mother  was  so  afflicted  at  the  loss  of  a fine 
boy,  who  was  her  only  son,  that  she  died  for  grief  of  it. 
Upon  laying  together  all  particulars,  and  examining  the  sev- 
eral moles  and  marks  by  which  the  mother  used  to  describe 
the  child  when  he  wTas  first  missing,  the  boy  proved  to  be  the 
son  of  the  merchant  whose  heart  had  so  unaccountably  melt- 
ed at  the  sight  of  him.  The  lad  was  very  well  pleased  to  find  a 
father  who  was  so  rich,  and  likely  to  leave  him  a good  estate  ; 
the  father,  on  the  other  hand,  wTas  not  a little  delighted  to 
see  a son  return  to  him,  whom  he  had  given  for  lost,  with 
such  a strength  of  constitution,  sharpness  of  understanding, 
and  skill  in  languages.”  Here  the  printed  story  leaves  off; 
but  if  I may  give  credit  to  reports,  our  linguist,  having  re- 


SIR  ROGER'S  VISIT  TO  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  159 


ceived  such  extraordinary  rudiments  towards  a good  educa- 
tion, was  afterwards  trained  up  in  everything  that  becomes  a 
gentleman  ; wearing  off,  by  little  and  little,  all  the  vicious 
habits  and  practices  that  he  had  been  used  to  in  the  course 
of  his  peregrinations  : nay,  it  i-  said,  that  he  has  since  been 
employed  in  foreign  courts  upon  national  business,  with  great 
reputation  to  himself  and  honor  to  those  who  sent  him,  and 
that  he  has  visited  several  countries  as  a public  minister,  in 
which  he  formerly  wandered  as  a gipsy. 


SIR  ROGER’S  VISIT  TO  THE  TOMBS  IN 
WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

MY  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  told  me  t’other  night, 
that  he  had  been  reading  my  paper  upon  Westminster 
Abbey,  in  which,  says  he,  there  are  a great  many  ingenious 
fancies.  He  told  me,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  observed  I 
had  promised  another  paper  upon  the  tombs,  and  that  he 
should  be  glad  to  go  and  see  them  with  me,  not  having 
visited  them  since  he  had  read  history.  I could  not  imagine 
how  this  came  into  the  knight’s  head,  till  I recollected  he  had 
been  very  busy  all  last  summer  upon  Baker’s  Chronicle, 
wrhich  he  has  quoted  several  times  in  his  disputes  with  Sir 
Andrew  Freeport,  since  his  last  coming  to  town.  According- 
ly, I promised  to  call  upon  him  the  next  morning,  that  we 
might  go  together  to  the  abbey. 

I found  the  knight  under  his  butler’s  hands,  who  always 
shaves  him.  He  was  no  sooner  dressed,  than  he  called  for  a 
glass  of  the  Widow  Truby’s  Water,  which  he  told  me  he  al- 
ways drank  before  he  went  abroad.  He  recommended  me  to 
a dram  of  it  at  the  same  time,  with  so  much  heartiness,  that 
I could  not  forbear  drinking  it.  As  soon  as  I had  got  it 


.GO 


SIR  ROGER'S  VISIT  TO  TIIE  TOMBS 


down,  I found  it  very  unpalatable ; upon  which  the  knight, 
observing  that  I had  made  several  wry  faces,  told  me  that  he 
knew  I should  not  like  it  at  first,  but  that  it  was  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  against  the  stone  or  gravel. 

I could  have  wished  indeed  that  he  had  acquainted  me 
with  the  virtues  of  it  sooner  ; but  it  was  too  late  to  complain, 
and  I knew  what  he  had  done  was  out  of  good-will.  Sir 
Roger  told  me  further,  that  he  got  together  a quantity  of  it 
upon  the  first  news  of  the  sickness  being  at  Dantzick ; when, 
of  a sudden  turning  short  to  one  of  his  servants  who  stood 
behind  him,  he  bid  him  call  a hackney  coach,  and  take  care 
it  was  an  elderly  man  that  drove  it. 

He  then  resumed  his  discourse  upon  Mrs.  Truby’s  Water, 
telling  me  that  the  Widow  Truby  was  one  who  did  more  good 
than  all  the  doctors  and  apothecaries  in  the  country  ; that  she 
distilled  every  poppy  that  grew  within  five  miles  of  her : that 
she  distributed  her  water  gratis  among  all  sorts  of  people : 
to  which  the  knight  added  that  she  had  a very  great  jointure, 
and  that  the  whole  country  would  fain  have  it  a match  be- 
tween him  and  her ; “ and  truly,”  says  Sir  Roger,  u if  I had 
not  been  engaged,  perhaps  I could  not  have  done  better.” 

His  discourse  was  broken  off  by  his  man’s  telling  him  he 
had  called  a fcoach.  Upon  our  going  to  it,  after  having  cast 
his  eye  upon  the  wheels,  he  asked  the  coachman  if  his  axle- 
tree  was  good ; upon  the  fellow’s  telling  him  he  would  war- 
rant it,  the  knight  turned  to  me,  told  me  he  looked  like  an 
honest  man,  and  went  in  without  further  ceremony. 

We  had  not  gone  far,  when  Sir  Roger,  popping  out  his 
head,  called  the  coachman  down  from  his  box,  and  upon  pre- 
senting himself  at  the  window,  asked  him  if  he  smoked.  As 
I was  considering  what  this  would  end  in,  he  bid  him  stop  by 
the  way  at  any  good  tobacconist’s,  and  take  in  a roll  of  their 
best  Virginia.  Nothing  material  happened  in  the  remaining 


IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


161 


part  of  our  journey,  till  we  were  set  down  at  the  west  end  of 
the  abbey. 

As  we  went  up  the  body  of  the  church,  the  knight  pointed 
at  the  trophies  upon  one  of  the  new  monuments,  and  cried 
out,  “ A brave  man,  I warrant  him  !”  Passing  afterwards  by 
Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel,  he  flung  his  hand  that  way,  and  cried, 
“ Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel ! a very  gallant  man.”  As  we  stood 
before  Busby’s  tomb,  the  knight  uttered  himself  again  after 
the  same  manner : “ Dr.  Busby  ! a great  man ! he  whipped 
my  grandfather : a very  great  man  ! I should  have  gone  to 
him  myself,  if  I had  not  been  a blockhead  : a very  great  man  !” 

We  were  immediately  conducted  into  the  little  chapel  on 
the  right  hand.  Sir  Boger,  planting  himself  at  our  historian’s 
elbow,  was  very  attentive  to  everything  he  said,  particularly 
to  the  account  he  gave  us  of  the  lord  who  had  cut  off  the 
King  of  Morocco’s  head.  Among  several  other  figures,  he 
was  very  much  pleased  to  see  the  statesman  Cecil  upon  his 
knees : and  concluding  them  all  to  be  great  men,  was  con- 
ducted to  the  figure  which  represents  that  martyr  to  good 
housewifery,  who  died  by  the  prick  of  a needle.  Upon  our 
interpreter’s  telling  us  that  she  was  maid  of  honor  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  the  knight  was  very  inquisitive  about  her  name 
and  family : and,  after  having  regarded  her  finger  for  some 
time,  u I wonder,”  says  he,  a that  Sir  Ilichard  Baker  has  said 
nothing  of  her  in  his  Chronicle.” 

We  were  then  conveyed  to  the  two  coronation  chairs, 
where  my  old  friend,  after  having  heard  that  the  stone  under- 
neath the  most  ancient  of  them,  which  was  brought  from 
Scotland,  was  called  Jacob’s  pillar,  sat  himself  down  in  the 
chair,  and,  looking  like  the  figure  of  an  .old  Gothic  king,  asked 
our  interpreter,  what  authority  they  had  to  say  that  Jacob 
had  ever  been  in  Scotland  ? The  fellow,  instead  of  returning 
him  an  answer,  told  him  that  he  begged  his  honor  would  pay 


162 


SIR  ROGER'S  VISIT  TO  TILE  TOMBS 


his  forfeit.  I could  observe  Sir  Roger  a little  ruffled  upon 
being  thus  trepanned  ; but  our  guide  not  insisting  on  his  de- 
mand, the  knight  soon  recovered  his  good-humor,  and  whis- 
pered in  my  ear,  that  if  Will  Wimble  were  with  us,  and  saw 
those  chairs,  it  would  go  hard  but  he  would  get  a tobacco- 
stopper  out  of  one  or  t’other  of  them. 

Sir  Roger,  in  the  next  place,  laid  his  hand  upon  Edward 
the  Third’s  sword,  and  leaning  upon  the  pummel  of  it,  gave 
us  the  whole  history  of  the  Black  Prince ; concluding,  that 
in  Sir  Richard  Baker’s  opinion,  Edward  the  Third  was  one 
of  the  greatest  princes  that  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne. 

We  were  then  shown  Edward  the  Confessor’s  tomb ; upon 
which  Sir  Roger  acquainted  us,  that  he  was  the  first  who 
touched  for  the  evil;  and  afterwards  Henry  the  Fourth’s, 
upon  which  he  shook  his  head,  and  told  us  there  was  fine 
reading  in  the  casualties  of  that  reign. 

Our  conductor  then  pointed  out  that  monument  where 
there  is  the  figure  of  one  of  our  English  kings  without  a head  ; 
and  upon  giving  us  to  know,  that  the  head,  which  was  of 
beaten  silver,  had  been  stolen  away  several  years  since  ; 
“ Some  Whig,  I’ll  warrant  you,”  said  Sir  Roger  ; “ you  ought 
to  lock  up  your  kings  better  : they  will  carry  off  the  body 
too,  if  you  don’t  take  care.” 

The  glorious  names  of  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth gave  the  knight  great  opportunities  of  shining,  and  of 
doing  justice  to  Sir  Richard  Baker,  who,  as  our  knight  ob- 
served with  some  surprise,  had  a great  many  kings  in  him 
whose  monuments  he  had  not  seen  in  the  abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  I could  not  but  be  pleased  to  see  the 
knight  show  such  an  honest  passion  for  the  glory  of  his  coun- 
try, and  such  a respectful  gratitude  for  the  memory  of  its 
princes. 

I must  not  omit,  that  the  benevolence  of  my  good  old 


IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


163 


friend  which  flows  out  towards  every  one  he  converses  with, 
made  him  very  kind  to  our  interpreter,  whom  he  looked  upon 
as  an  extraordinary  man  ; for  which  reason  he  shook  him  by 
the  hand  at  parting,  telling  him  that  he  should  be  very  glad 
to  see  him  at  his  lodgings  in  Norfolk  Buildings,  and  talk  over 
these  matters  with  him  more  at  leisure* 


3Ennnra  nf  \\)i  /rtnrjr. 

About  thirty  years  ago  a volume  appeared  from  the  pen  of  a trav- 
eller in  France,  which  set  u all  the  world”  in  England  upon  going  to 
that  country,  and  living  on  the  charming  “ banks  of  the  Loire a 
river  not  so  well  known  then,  as  it  has  lately  been,  for  an  ugly  trick  it 
has  of  overflowing  its  banks,  and  frightening  its  Paradisaical  inhabit- 
ants out  of  their  wits.  We  allude  to  the  travels  of  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Pinckney,  an  officer  in  the  American  service,  who  made  the  greater 
part  of  his  tour  in  company  with  another  American  gentleman  and 
two  French  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  his  friend’s  wife.  This  circum- 
stance will  account  for  the  different  modes  in  which  he  speaks  of  him- 
self in  the  following  extracts,  one  of  them  implying  that  he  was  alone 
Our  extracts  are  what  the  reviewers  would  call  “ favorable  specimens 
that  is,  of  French  character  ; and  we  make  them  advisedly  such,  for 
neighborly  purposes.  Englishmen  like  to  see  favorable  specimens  of 
their  own  travellers  in  the  accounts  given  of  them  by  Frenchmen  ; 
and  we  therefore  do  as  we  would  be  done  by.  Both  Englishmen  and 
Frenchmen  have  faults  to  mend  and  customs  to  get  rid  of ; and  they 
cannot  do  better  than  by  regarding  with  kindness  what  is  best  on 
both  sides. 

THE  main  purpose  of  my  journey  (says  the  gallant  Colo- 
nel) being  rather  to  see  the  manners  of  the  people,  than 
the  brick  and  mortar  of  the  towns,  I had  formed  a resolution 
to  seek  the  necessary  refreshment  as  seldom  as  possible  at 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH. 


165 


inns,  and  as  often  as  possible  in  the  houses  of  the  humbler 
farmers,  and  the  better  kind  of  peasantry.  About  fifteen 
miles  from  Calais  my  horse  and  myself  were  looking  out  for 
something  of  this  kind,  and  one  shortly  appeared  about  three 
hundred  yards  on  the  left  side  of  the  road.  It  was  a cot- 
tage in  the  midst  of  a garden,  and  the  whole  surrounded  by 
a hedge,  which  looked  delightfully  green  and  refreshing.  The 
garden  was  all  in  flower  and  bloom.  The  walls  of  the  cot- 
tage were  robed  in  the  same  livery  of  nature.  I had  seen 
such  cottages  in  Kent  and  Devonshire,  but  in  no  other  part 
of  the  world.  The  inhabitants  were  simple  people,  small  far- 
mers, having  about  ten  or  fifteen  acres  of  land.  Some  grass 
was  immediately  cut  for  my  horse,  and  the  coffee  which  I 
produced  from  my  pocket  was  speedily  set  before  me,  with 
cakes,  wine,  some  meat,  and  cheese — the  French  peasantry 
having  no  idea  of  what  we  call  tea.  Throwing  the  windows 
up,  so  as  to  enjoy  the  scenery  and  freshness  of  the  garden  ; 
sitting  upon  one  chair,  and  resting  a leg  upon  the  other  ; al- 
ternately pouring  out  my  coffee,  and  reading  a pocket  edition 
of  Thomson’s  Scaso7is , I enjoyed  one  of  those  moments  which 
gave  a zest  to ‘life  ; I felt  happy,  and  in  peace  and  in  love 
with  all  around  me. 

Proceeding  upon  my  journey,  two  miles  on  the  Calais 
side  of  Boulogne  I fell  in  with  an  overturned  chaise,  which 
the  postilion  was  trying  to  raise.  The  vehicle  was  a chaise 
de  poste,  the  ordinary  travelling  carriage  of  the  country,  and 
a thing  in  a civilized  country  wretched  beyond  conception. 
It  was  drawn  by  three  horses,  one  in  the  shafts,  and  one  on 
each  side.  The  postillion  had  ridden  on  the  one  on  the 
driving  side  ; he  was  a little  punch  fellow,  and  in  a pair  of 
boots  like  fire  buckets.  The  travellers  consisted  of  an  old 
French  lady  and  gentleman  ; madame  in  a high  crimped  cap, 
and  stiff  long  whalebone  stays.  Monsieur  informed  me  very 


MANNERS  OF  TIIE  FRENCH. 


166 

courteously  of  the  cause  of  the  accident,  whilst  madame  al 
ternately  curtsied  to  me,  and  menaced  and  scolded  the  pos 
tilion. 

A single  cart,  and  a wagon,  were  all  the  vehicles  that  J 
saw  between  Boulogne  and  Abbeville.  In  England,  in  the 
same  space,  I should  have  seen  a dozen  or  score. 

Not  being  pressed  for  time,  the  beauty  of  a scene  at  some 
little  distance  from  the  road-side  tempted  me  to  enter  into  a 
bye-lane,  and  take  a nearer  view  of  it.  A village  church, 
embosomed  in  a chestnut-wood,  just  rose  above  the  trees  on 
the  top  of  a hill ; the  setting  sun  was  on  its  casements,  and 
the  foliage  of  the  wood  was  burnished  by  the  golden  reflec- 
tion. The  distant  hum  of  the  village  green  was  just  audible  ; 
but  not  so  the  French  horn,  which  echoed  in  full  melody 
through  the  groves.  Having  rode  about  half  a mile  through 
a narrow  sequestered  lane,  which  strongly  reminded  me  of 
the  half-green  and  half-trodden  bye-roads  in  Warwickshire,  I 
came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  on  the  brow  and  summit  of 
which  the  village  and  church  were  situated.  I now  saw 
whence  the  sound  of  the  horn  proceeded.  On  the  left  of  the 
road  was  an  ancient  chateau,  situated  in  a park  or  very  ex- 
tensive meadow,  and  ornamented  as  well  by  some  venerable 
trees,  as  by  a circular  fence  of  flowering  shrubs,  guarded  on 
the  outside  by  a paling  on  a raised  mound.  The  park  or 
meadow  having  been  newly  mown,  had  an  air  at  once  orna- 
mented and  natural.  A party  of  ladies  were  collected  under 
a patch  of  trees  situated  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn.  I stopped 
at  the  gate  to  look  at  them,  thinking  myself  unperceived  ; 
but  in  the  same  moment  the  gate  was  opened  to  me  by  a gen- 
tleman and  two  ladies,  who  were  walking  the  round.  An  ex- 
planation was  now  necessary,  and  was  accordingly  given.  The 
gentleman  informed  me,  upon  his  part,  that  the  chateau  be- 
longed to  Mons.  St.  Quentin,  a member  of  the  French  senate, 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH 


167 


and  a judge  of  the  district ; that  he  had  a party  of  friends 
with  him  upon  the  occasion  of  his  lady’s  birthday,  that  they 
were  about  to  begin  dancing,  and  that  Mons.  St.  Quentin 
would  highly  congratulate  himself  on  my  accidental  arrival. 
One  of  the  ladies,  having  previously  apologized  and  left  us, 
had  seemingly  explained  to  Mons.  St.  Quentin  the  main  cir- 
cumstance belonging  to  me  ; for  he  now  appeared,  and  re- 
peated the  invitation  in  his  own  person.  The  ladies  added 
their  kind  importunities.  I dismounted,  gave  my  horse  to  a 
servant  in  waiting,  and  joined  this  happy  and  elegant  party — 
for  such  it  really  was. 

I had  now,  for  the  first  time,  an  opportunity  of  forming 
an  opinion  of  French  beauty,  the  assemblage  of  ladies  being 
very  numerous,  and  all  of  them  most  elegantly  dressed. 
Travelling,  and  the  imitative  arts,  have  given  a most  surpris- 
ing uniformity  to  all  the  fashions  of  dress  and  ornament ; and 
whatever  may  be  said  to  the  contrary,  there  is  a very  slight 
difference  between  the  scenes  of  a French  and  English  polite 
assembly.  If  anything,  however,  be  distinguishable,  it  is 
more  in  degree  than  in  substance.  The  French  fashions,  as 
I saw  them  here,  differed  in  no  other  point  from  what  I had 
seen  in  London,  but  in  degree.  The  ladies  were  certainly 
more  exposed  about  the  necks,  and  their  hair  was  dressed 
with  more  fancy  ; but  the  form  was  in  almost  everything  the 
same.  The  most  elegant  novelty  was  a hat,  which  doubled 
up  like  a fan,  so  that  the  ladies  carried  it  in  their  hands. 
There  were  more  colored  than  white  muslins ; a variety 
which  had  a very  pretty  effect  amongst  the  trees  and  flowers. 
The  same  observation  applies  to  the  gentlemen.  Their 
Presses  were  made  as  in  England  ; but  the  pattern  of  the 
cloth,  or  some  appendage  to  it,  was  different.  One  gentle- 
man habited  in  a grass-colored  silk  coat,  had  very  much  the 
appearance  of  Beau  Mordecai  in  the  farce  : the  ladies,  how* 


108 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH. 


ever,  seemed  to  admire  him ; and  in  some  conversation  with 
him  I found  him,  in  spite  of  his  coat,  a very  well-informed 
man.  There  were  likewise  three  or  four  fancy  dresses  ; a 
Dian,  a wood  nymph,  and  a sweet  girl  playing  upon  a flute, 
habited  according  to  a picture  of  Calypso  by  David.  On  the 
whole,  there  was  certainly  more  fancy,  more  taste,  and  more 
elegance,  than  in  an  English  party  of  the  same  description  ; 
though  there  wTas  not  so  many  handsome  women  as  would 
have  been  the  proportion  of  such  an  assembly  in  England. 

From  La  Fleche  to  Angers,  and  thence  to  Ancennis,  the 
country  is  a complete  garden.  The  hills  were  covered  with 
vines  ; every  wood  had  its  chateau,  and  every  village  its  church. 
The  peasantry  were  clean  and  happy,  the  children  cheerful 
and  healthful  looking,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  younger 
women  spirited  and  handsome.  There  was  a great  plenty 
of  fruit ; and  as  we  passed  through  the  villages,  it  was  invari- 
ably brought  to  us,  and  almost  as  invariably  any  pecuniary 
return  refused  with  a retreating  curtsey.  One  sweet  girl,  a 
young  peasant,  with  eyes  and  complexion  which  would  be  es- 
teemed  handsome  even  in  Philadelphia,  having  made  Mr. 
Young  and  myself  an  offering  of  this  kind,  replied  very  pret- 
tily to  our  offer  of  money,  that  the  women  of  La  Fleche 
never  sold  either  grapes  or  water ; as  much  as  to  say  that  the 
one  was  as  plentiful  as  the  other.  Some  of  these  young  girls 
were  dressed  not  only  neatly  but  tastily.  Straw  hats  are  the 
manufacture  of  the  province  ; few  of  them,  therefore,  but  had 
a straw  bonnet,  and  few  of  these  bonnets  were  without  rib- 
bons or  flowers. 

We  remained  at  Oudon  till  near  sunset,  when  we  resum- 
ed our  road  to  Ancennis,  where  we  intended  to  sleep.  As 
this  was  only  a distance  of  seven  miles,  we  took  it  very  lei- 
surely, sometimes  riding  and  sometimes  walking.  The  even- 
ing was  as  beautiful  as  is  usual  in  the  southern  parts  of 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH 


169 


Europe  at  this  season  of  the  year.  The  road  was  most  ro- 
mantically recluse,  and  so  serpentine  as  never  to  be  visible 
beyond  a hundred  yards.  The  nightingales  were  singing  in 
the  adjoining  woods.  The  road,  moreover,  was  bordered 
on  each  side  by  lofty  hedges,  intermingled  with  fruit-trees, 
and  even  vines  in  full  bearing.  At  every  half-mile  a cross- 
road, branching  from  the  main  one,  led  into  the  recesses  of 
the  country,  or  to  some  castle  or  villa  on  the  high  grounds 
which  look  to  the  river.  At  some  of  these  bye-ways  were 
very  curious  inscriptions,  painted  on  narrow  boards  affixed  to 
a tree.  Such  were,  “ The  way  to  : My  Heart’s  Content’  is  half 
a league  up  this  road,  and  then  turn  to  the  right,  and  keep  on 
till  you  reach  it.”  And  another,  “ The  way  to  4 Love’s  Her- 
mitage’ is  up  this  lane,  till  you  come  to  the  cherry-tree  by 
the  side  of  a chalk-pit,  where  there  is  another  direction.” 
Mademoiselle  Sillery  informed  me,  that  these  kind  of  inscrip- 
tions were  characteristic  of'the  banks  of  the  Loire. 

“ The  inhabitants  along  the  whole  of  the  course  of  this 
river,”  said  she,  “ have  the  reputation,  from  time  immemorial, 
of  being  all  native  poets  ; and  the  reputation,  like  some  pro- 
phecies, has  perhaps  been  the  means  of  realizing  itself.  You 
do  not  perhaps  know  that  the  Loire  is  called  in  the  provinces 
the  River  of  Love  : and  doubtless  its  beautiful  banks,  its 
green  meadows,  and  its  woody  recesses,  have  what  the  musi- 
cians wTould  call  a symphony  of  tone  with  that  passion.”  I 
have  translated  this  sentence  verbally  from  my  note-book,  as 
it  may  give  some  idea  of  Mademoiselle  Sillery.  If  ever  a 
figure  was  formed  to  inspire  the  passion  of  which  she  spoke, 
it  was  this  lady.  Many  days  and  years  must  pass  over  be- 
fore I forget  our  walk  on  the  green  road  from  Oudon  to  An- 
cennis — one  of  the  sweetest,  softest  scenes  in  France. 

We  entered  the  forest  of  Ancennis  as  the  sun  was  setting. 
This  forest  is  celebrated,  in  every  ancient  French  ballad,  as 
8 


170 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH. 


being  the  haunt  of  fairies,  and  the  scene  of  the  ancient 
archery  of  the  provinces  of  Bretagne  and  Anjou.  The  road 
through  it  was  over  a green  turf,  in  which  the  marks  of  a 
wheel  were  scarcely  visible.  The  forest  on  each  side  was 
very  thick.  At  short  intervals,  narrow  footpaths  struck 
into  the  wood.  Our  carriage  had  been  sent  before  to 
Ancennis,  and  we  were  walking  merrily  on,  when  the  well- 
known  sound  of  the  French  horn  arrested  our  steps  and 
attention.  Mademoiselle  Sillery  immediately  guessed  it  to 
proceed  from  a company  of  archers ; and  in  a few  moments 
her  conjecture  was  verified  by  the  appearance  of  two  ladies 
and  a gentleman,  who  issued  from  one  of  the  narrow  paths. 
The  ladies,  who  were  merely  running  from  the  gentleman, 
were  very  tastily  habited  in  the  favorite  French  dress  after 
the  Dian  of  David  ; whilst  the  blue  silk  jacket  and  hunting- 
cap  of  the  gentleman  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a groom 
about  to  ride  a race.  Our  appearance  necessarily  took  their 
attention;  and  after  an  exchange  of  salutes,  but  in  which 
no  names  were  mentioned  on  either  side,  they  invited  us  to 
accompany  them  to  their  party,  who  were  refreshing  them- 
selves in  an  adjoining  dell.  “ We  have  had  a party  at  arch- 
ery,” said  one  of  them,  “ and  Madame  St.  Amande  has  won 
the  silver  bugle  and  bow.  The  party  is  now  at  supper,  after 
which  we  go  to  the  chateau  to  dance.  Perhaps  you  will  not 
suffer  us  to  repent  having  met  you,  by  refusing  to  accompany 
us.”  Mademoiselle  Sillery  was  very  eager  to  accept  this 
invitation,  and  looked  rather  blank  when  Mrs.  Young  declin- 
ed it,  as  she  wished  to  proceed  on  her  road  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. “You  will  at  least  accompany  us,  merely  to  see  the 
party.”  “ By  all  means,”  said  Mademoiselle  Sillery.  “ I 
must  really  regret  that  I cannot,”  said  Mrs.  Young.  “If  it 
must  be  so,”  resumed  the  lady  who  was  inviting  us,  “ let  us 
exchange  tokens,  and  we  may  meet  again.”  This  proposal, 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH. 


171 


so  perfectly  new  to  me,  was  accepted : the  fair  archers  gave 
onr  ladies  their  pearl  crescents,  which  had  the  appearance  of 
being  of  considerable  value.  Madame  Young  returned  some- 
thing which  I did  not  see  : Mademoiselle  Sillery  gave  a silver 
Cupid,  which  had  served  her  for  an  essence-bottle.  The 
gentleman  then  shaking  hands  with  us,  and  the  ladies  embrac- 
ing each  other,  we  parted  mutually  satisfied.  “ Who  are  these 
ladies?”  demanded  I.  “ You  know  them  as  well  as  we  do,” 
replied  Mademoiselle  Sillery.  “And  is  it  thus,”  said  I, 
“that  you  receive  all  strangers  indiscriminately?”  “ Yes,” 
replied  she,  “ all  strangers  of  a certain  condition.  Where 
they  are  evidently  of  our  own  rank,  we  know  of  no  reserve. 
Indeed,  why  should  we  ? It  is  to  general  advantage  to  be 
pleased,  and  to  please  each  other.”  “But  you  embraced 
them  as  if  you  really  felt  an  affection  for  them.”  “ And  I 
did  feel  that  affection  for  them,”  said  she,  “ as  long  as  I was 
with  them.  I would  have  done  them  every  service  in  my 
power,  and  would  even  have  made  sacrifices  to  serve  them.” 
“ And  yet  if  you  were  to  see  them  again,  you  would  perhaps 
not  know  them.”  “ Very  possibly,”  replied  she.  “ But  I can 
see  no  reason  why  every  affection  should  be  necessarily  per- 
manent. We  never  pretend  to  permanence.  We  are  cer- 
tainly transient,  but  not  insincere.” 

In  this  conversation  we  reached  Ancennis,  a village  on  a 
green  surrounded  by  forests.  Some  of  the  cottages,  as  we 
saw  them  by  moonlight,  seemed  most  delightfully  situated ; 
and  the  village  had  altogether  that  air  of  quietness  and  of 
rural  retreat,  which  characterizes  the  scenery  of  the  Loire. 
Our  horses  having  preceded  us  by  an  hour  or  more,  every- 
thing was  prepared  for  us  when  we  reached  our  inn.  A 
turkey  had  been  put  down  to  roast,  and  I entered  the  kitchen 
in  time  to  prevent  its  being  spoilt  by  French  cookery. 
Mademoiselle  Sillery  had  the  table  provided  in  an  instant 


172 


MANNERS  OF  THE  FRENCH. 


with  silver  forks  and  table-linen.  Had  a Parisian  seen  a 
table  thus  set  out  at  Ancennis,  without  knowing  that  we  had 
brought  all  these  requisites  with  us,  he  would  not  have 
credited  his  senses.  The  inns  in  France  along  the  banks  of 
the  Loire  are  less  deficient  in  substantial  comforts  than  in 
these  ornamental  appendages.  Poultry  is  everywhere  cheap, 
and  in  great  plenty  ; but  a French  inn-keeper  has  no  idea  of 
a table-cloth,  and  still  less  of  a clean  one.  He  will  give  you 
food  and  a feather-bed,  but  you  must  provide  yourselves  with 
sheets  and  table-cloths. 


51  23 diise  mill  dm  on  lifts. 

FROM  COWLEY,  SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE,  LADY  WINCHILSEA, 
AND  MACKENZIE. 

“ I’ve  often  wished  that  I had  clear, 

For  life,  six  hundred  pounds  a-year, 

A handsome  house  to  lodge  a friend, 

A river  at  my  garden’s  end, 

A terrace  walk,  and  half  a rood 
Of  land  set  out  to  plant  a wood.” 

Few  indeed  are  the  persons  that  in  the  course  of  their  lives  have 
not  entertained  wishes  of  the  like  sort.  Sometimes  they  have  realized 
them  ; sometimes  been  disappointed  by  the  realization  itself.  In  the 
latter  case,  the  fault  is  neither  in  the  wish  nor  in  the  things  wished 
for.  The  wish  is  good,  if  only  as  a pleasure  of  the  imagination  and 
an  encouragement  to  the  means  for  attaining  its  object;  and  the 
things  are  found  to  be  very  good  indeed,  by  those  whose  tempera- 
ments and  habits  qualify  them  for  the  enjoyment.  Stories  of  unhappy 
millionaires  who  retire  only  to  find  the  country  tedious,  of  tallow- 
chandlers  who  yearn  for  their  melting  days,  and  even  of  poets  discon- 
tented with  their  “groves,”  prove  but  the  want  of  previous  fitness,  or 
of  sufficient  good  health.  The  tallow-chandler  should  have  cultivated 
something  besides  long-sixes,  and  the  poet  should  not  have  sate  read- 
ing about  his  groves  till  the  state  of  his  biliary  vessels  hindered  his 
enjoyment  when  he  got  them.  There  is,  however,  a great  deal  of 
difference  in  those  cases.  That  of  the  tallow-chandler,  if  he  knows 


174 


A HOUSE  AND  GROUNDS. 


nothing  but  tallow  and  is  not  in  a patient  state  of  health,  is  hopeless, 
for  he  is  neither  clever  nor  poor  enough  to  be  able  to  go  and  help  the 
village  carpenter.  He  must  needs  quit  his  roses  for  the  melting-tub, 
and  in  very  desperation  grows  richer  than  he  was  before.  But  the 
love  of  groves  and  gardens  being  a habit  of  the  poet’s  mind,  he  bears 
ill-health  better  with  them  than  without  them  ; complaint  itself  com- 
forts him  more  than  it  does  other  men,  for  he  complains  in  verse ; and 
it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Shenstone,  with  all  his  desire  of  visitors, 
and  Cowley,  with  all  his  child-like  disappointments  as  to  “rustic  in- 
nocence,” did  not  pass  many  happy,  or  at  least  many  soothing,  days 
in  their  country  abodes.  Shenstone,  in  particular,  must  have  largely 
partaken  of  the  pleasures  of  a creator,  for  he  invented  the  lovely 
scenes  about  his  house,  and  saw  to  their  execution. 

It  would  be  a good  work  in  some  writer  to  collect  instances  of  this 
kind  of  disappointment  and  the  reverse,  and  show  how  entirely  each 
was  to  be  attributed  to  particular  circumstances,  and  not  to  that  uni- 
versal doom  so  falsely  predicated  of  all  human  expectations.  Great 
names  prove  nothing  against  counter-examples.  Solomon  himself 
may  have  been  disappointed:  but  it  was  not  because  he  was  the 
“ wisest  of  men  it  was  because  he  had  been  too  rich  and  luxurious, 
and  so  far  one  of  the  foolishest.  We  do  not  find  that  his  brother  phi- 
losopher, Epicurus,  was  disappointed ; for  he  was  poor  and  temperate, 
and  thus  was  enabled  to  enjoy  his  garden  to  the  last.  There  have  been 
abdicated  monarchs  who  wished  to  resume  their  thrones — royal  tal- 
low-chandlers who  could  not  do  without  their  melting  levee-days ; 
but  such  was  not  the  case  with  Diocletian,  who  had  a taste  for  gar- 
dening. On  the  contrary,  he  told  the  ambassadors  who  came  to  tempt 
him  back  to  power,  that  if  they  knew  what  pleasure  he  took  in  his 
“ cabbages,”  they  would  hate  to  go  back  themselves.  Swift,  who  imi- 
tated from  Horace  the  verses  at  the  head  of  this  article,  would  never 
have  been  happy  in  retirement,  for  he  had  a restless  blood,  and  his 
good  consisted  in  the  attainment  of  power.  He  must  have  written 
with  greater  zest  the  lines  a little  further  on  : — 

“ But  here  a grievance  seems  to  lie, 

All  this  is  mine  but  till  I die: 

I can’t  but  think  ’twould  sound  more  clever, 

To  me  and  to  my  heirs  forever.” 

But  his  friend  Pope  set  up  his  rest  early  in  life  at  Twickenham,  and 
never  desired  to  leave  it.  Ill-health  itself  in  him  was  luckily  of  a kind 


A HOUSE  AND  GROUNDS. 


175 


that  made  him  tranquil.  The  author  of  the  Seasons  never  tired  of 
the  country.  White  of  Selborne  never  tired  of  it.  Both  found  inces- 
sant occupation  in  watching  the  proceedings  of  the  Nature  they  loved. 

It  must  be  observed  of  Thomson,  however,  that  he  lived  so  near 
town  as  to  be  able  to  visit  it  whenever  he  chose.  His  house  was  at 
beautiful  Richmond.  I doubt  not  he  would  have  been  happy  any- 
where with  a few  trees  and  friends ; but  he  liked  a play  also,  and 
streets,  and  human  movement.  He  would  fain  not  go  so  far  from 
London  as  not  to  be  able  to  interchange  the  delights  of  towrn  and 
country.  And  why  should  anybody  that  can  help  it  I The  loveliest 
country  can  be  found  within  that  reasonable  distance,  especially  in 
these  days  of  railroads.  You  may  bury  yourself  in  as  healthy,  if  not 
as  wide,  a solitude  as  if  you  were  in  the  Highlands  ; and,  in  an  hour 
or  two,  you  can  enhance  the  pleasures  of  returning  to  it,  by  a book 
of  your  own  buying,  or  a toy  for  your  children.  To  resign  forever  the 
convenience  and  pleasures  of  intercourse  with  a great  city  would  be 
desired  by  few ; and  it  would  be  least  of  all  desired  (except  under 
very  particular  circumstances)  by  those  who  can  enjoy  the  country 
most ; because  the  power  to  discern,  and  the  disposition  to  be  pleased, 
are  equally  the  secrets  of  the  enjoyment  in  both  cases.  These,  and  a 
congenial  occupation,  will  make  a conscientious  man  happy  anywhere 
if  he  has  decent  health  ; and  if  he  is  sickly,  no  earthly  comforts  can 
supply  the  want  of  them,  no,  not  even  the  affection  of  those  about 
him : for  what  is  affection,  if  it  show  nothing  but  the  good  hearts  of 
those  who  feel  it,  and  is  wasted  on  a thankless  temper  1 Acquire- 
ment of  information,  benignity,  something  to  do,  and  as  many  things 
as  possible  to  love,  these  are  the  secrets  of  happiness  in  town  or  coun- 
try. If  White  of  Selborne  had  been  a town  instead  of  a country  cler- 
gyman, he  would  have  told  us  all  about  the  birds  in  the  city  as  well 
as  the  suburbs.  We  should  have  had  the  best  reason  given  us  why 
lime-trees  flourish  in  London  smoke  ; lists  of  flowers  for  our  windows 
would  have  been  furnished  us,  together  with  their  times  of  bloom- 
ing ; we  should  have  been  told  of  the  Ratopolis  under  ground,  as  well 
as  of  the  dray-horses  above  it ; and  perhaps  the  discoverer  of  the 
double  spiracula  in  the  noses  of  stags  would  have  found  out  the  reason 
why  tallow-chandlers  have  no  noses  at  all. 

Now,  what  sort  of  house  would  most  take  the  fancy  of  readers  who 
enjoy  a book  like  the  present!  We  mean  for  repose  and  comfort, 
apart  from  the  nobler  and  severer  pleasures  (very  rare  ones)  arising 


176 


A HOUSE  AND  GROUNDS. 


from  discharging  the  duties  belonging  to  a large  estate.  Certainly  not 
the  house  belonging  to  such  an  estate  ; not  a house  like  Pliny's,  the 
size  and  “set  out”  of  which  it  is  a labor  to  read  of;  not  the  cold 
southern  halls  of  the  Romans  or  Italians,  unfit  for  this  climate  ; nor  an 
ancient  Greek,  nor  modern  Eastern  house,  with  the  women’s  apart- 
ments imprisoned  off  from  the  rest ; nor  an  old  French  chateau  (ex- 
cept in  Mrs.  Radcliffe’s  romances) — for  though  pretty  to  read  of,  as 
belonging  to  the  Montmorencys  or  the  Rambouillets,  it  was  inconve- 
nient inside,  and  had  formal  grounds  without ; nor  the  lumbering  old 
German  house,  such  as  Goethe  describes  it,  though  habit  and  love 
may  have  sanctified  all  these ; no,  nor  even  the  princely  palace  of 
Chatsworth,  though  it  be  as  full  of  taste  as  the  owner,  and  of  fra- 
grance from  conservatories  as  of  blessings  from  the  poor.  Comfortable 
rooms,  doubtless,  are  to  be  found  in  that  palace  ; nay,  snug  ones  ; for 
the  height  of  taste  implies  the  height  of  good  sense ; and  such  a nest 
and  corner-loving  mood  of  the  mind  as  that  epithet  designates,  we 
may  be  sure  is  not  unprovided  for.  Yet  the  corner  still  is  in  the  great 
house  ; is  a part  of  it ; cannot  get  rid  of  it ; is  shouldered  and  (of  any 
other  such  mansion  you  might  say)  scorned  by  it.  We  must  have 
been  used  to  such  houses  all  our  lives  (which  is  seldom  the  case  with 
those  whose  luxuries  lie  in  books),  otherwise  wre  cannot  settle  our- 
selves comfortably  in  idea  to  the  extent  and  responsibilities  of  all  those 
suits  of  apartments,  those  corridors,  pillars,  galleries,  looks  out  and 
looks  in,  and  to  the  visitations  of  the  steward.  It  is  not  a house,  but 
a set  of  houses  thrown  into  one  ; not  a nest,  but  a range  under  cover; 
not  a privacy,  but  a publicity  and  an  empire  ! Admiration  and  bless- 
ing be  upon  it,  for  it  is  the  great  house  of  a good  man  and  his  large 
heart  fits  it  well;  and  yet  assuredly,  in  the  eyes  of  us  lovers  of  nooks 
and  books,  the  idea  of  him  never  seems  so  happy  as  when  it  con- 
tracts its  princely  dimensions,  and  stoops  into  such  cottage  rooms  as 
some  in  which  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of  beholding  him. 

But  we  must  not  digress  in  this  manner,  with  an  impertinence  how- 
ever respectful. 

The  house  to  be  desiderated  by  the  lover  of  books  in  ordinary,  is 
a warm,  cosy,  picturesque,  irregular  house,  either  old  but  not  fragile, 
or  new  but  built  upon  some  good  principle  ; a house  possessing,  never- 
theless, modern  comforts ; neither  big  enough  to  require  riches,  nor 
small  enough  to  cause  inconvenience ; more  open  to  the  sun  than 
otherwise  ; yet  with  trees  about  it,  and  the  sight  of  more  ; a prospect 


A HOUSE  AND  GROUNDS. 


177 


on  one  of  the  sides,  to  give  it  a sense  of  freedom,  but  a closer 
scene  in  front,  to  insure  the  sense  of  snugness ; a garden  neither 
wild  nor  formal;  or  rather  two  gardens,  if  possible,  though  not  of  ex- 
pensive size  ; one  to  remind  him  of  the  time  of  his  ancestors,  a li  trim 
garden,”  with  pattern  beds  of  flowers,  lavender,  &c. , and  a terrace — 
the  other  of  a freer  sort,  with  a shrubbery,  and  turf  and  trees ; a 
bowling-green  by  all  means ; (what  sane  person  would  be  without  a 
bowling-green  7)  a rookery;  a dove-cote;  a brook;  a paddock;  a 
heath  for  air ; hill  and  dale  for  variety ; walks  in  a forest,  trunks  of 
trees  for  seats ; towers  li  embosomed”  in  their  companions  ; pastures, 
cottages  ; a town  not  far  off;  an  abbey  close  by;  mountains  in  the 
distance ; a glimpse  of  sails  in  a river,  but  not  large  sails  ; a combina- 
tion, in  short,  of  all  which  is  the  most 

But  hold.  One  twentieth  part  of  all  this  will  suffice,  if  the  air  be 
good,  and  the  neighbors  congenial ; a cottage,  an  old  farm-house,  any- 
thing solid  and  not  ugly,  always  excepting  the  mere  modern  house, 
which  looks  like  a barrack,  or  like  a workhouse,  or  like  a chapel,  or 
like  a square  box  with  holes  cut  into  it  for  windows,  or  a great  bit  of 
cheese  or  hearth-stone,  or  yellow  ochre.  It  has  a gravel  walk  up  to 
the  door,  and  a bit  of  unhappy  creeper  trying  to  live  upon  it ; and 
(under  any  possible  circumstances  of  quittal)  is  a disgrace  to  inhabit. 

As  to  the  garden,  the  only  absolute  sine  qua  non  is  a few  good 
brilliant  beds  of  flowers,  some  grass,  some  shade,  and  a bank.  But 
if  there  is  a bee-hive  in  a corner  it  is  better;  and  if  there  is  a 
bee-hive,  there  ought  to  be  a brook,  provided  it  is  clear,  and  the  soil 
gravelly. 

“ There,  in  some  covert,  by  a brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day’s  garish  eye  ; 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  concert  as  they  keep, 

\ Eniice  the  dewy-feather’d  sleep.” 

Beware,  though,  as  Gray  says,  t:  of  o.goesR  It  is  good  in  the  land  of 
poetry,  to  sleep  by  a brook ; but  in  Middlesex  it  is  best  to  do  it  in 
one’s  chamber.  The  best  place  to  take  a nap  in.  out  of  doors,  in  this 
lovely  but  moist  country,  is  a hay-field. 

But  we  are  detaining  the  reader  from  the  houses  and  gardens  pro- 
vided for  him  by  his  books.  What  signify  any  others,  while  the  en- 

8* 


THOUGHTS  OF  COWLEY  ON  A GARDEN. 


w8 

joyment  of  these  is  upon  usl  May-Fair  or  Saint  Mary  Axe  can  alike 
rejoice  in  them.  The  least  luxurious  room  in  a street,  provided  there 
be  but  quiet  enough  to  read  by,  or  imagination  enough  to  forget  one’s 
self,  enables  us  to  be  put  in  possession  of  a paradise. 

We  shall  begin  with  the  modest  retreat  desiderated  by  Cowley,  and 
the  eulogy  which  he  has  delivered  on  gardens  in  general.  His  style  is 
as  sweet  and  sincere  as  his  wishes.  The  poetical  portion  of  his  essay  is 
addressed  to  the  famous  English  country  gentleman  and  sylvan  patriot, 
his  friend  Evelyn,  who  realized  all  and  more  than  the  sensitive  poet 
did,  because  his  means  were  greater  and  his  complexion  more  healthy. 
But  Cowley  must  have  had  delicious  morflents  both  in  fancy  and  pos- 
session ; and  if  there  be  gardens  in  heaven  resembling  those  on  earth 
(which  some  have  thought,  and  which  is  not  so  unlieavenly  a notion 
as  many  that  are  held  divine),  his  innocent  heart  is  surely  the  inhabi- 
tant of  one  of  the  best  of  them. 

THOUGHTS  OF  COWLEY  ON  A GARDEN. 

FROM  A LETTER  TO  EVELYN. 

I NEVER  had  any  other  desire  so  strong,  and  so  like  to 
covetousness,  as  that  one  which  I have  had  always,  that  I 
might  be  master  at  last  of  a small  house  and  large  garden, 
with  very  moderate  conveniences  joined  to  them,  and  there 
dedicate  the  remainder  of  my  life,  only  to  the  culture  of  them, 
and  study  of  nature  ; 

“ And  there  (with  no  design  beyond  my  wall)  whole  and  entire  to  lie, 
In  no  unactive  ease,  and  no  unglorious  poverty.” 

Or,  as  Virgil  has  said,  shorter  and  better  for  me,  that  I 
might  there 

“ Studiis  florere  ignobilis  oti 

though  I could  wish  that  he  had  rather  said,  u Nobilis  otj\,! 
when  he  spoke  of  his  own. 


[Take  studious  flower  in  undistinguished  ease.] 


THOUGHTS  OF  COWLEY  ON  A GARDEN 


179 


Among  many  other  arts  and  excellences  which  yon  en- 
joy, I am  glad  to  find  this  favorite  of  mine  the  most  predom- 
inant. I know  nobody  that  possesses  more  private  happi- 
ness than  you  do  in  your  garden  ; and  yet  no  man  who 
makes  his  happiness  more  public,  by  a free  communication 
of  the  art  and  knowledge  of  it  to  others.  All  that  I myself 
am  able  yet  to  do,  is  only  to  recommend  to  mankind  the 
search  of  that  felicity,  which  you  instruct  them  how  to  find 
out  and  to  enjoy. 

Happy  art  thou,  whom  God  does  bless 
With  the  full  choice  of  thine  own  happiness  ; 

And  happier  yet,  because  thou’rt  blest 
With  prudence  how  to  choose  the  best. 

In  books  and  gardens,  thou  hast  plac’d  aright 
(Things  which  thou  well  dost  understand, 

And  both  dost  make  with  thy  laborious  hand) 

Thy  noble  innocent  delight : 

And  in  thy  virtuous  wife,  where  thou  again  dost  meet 
Both  pleasures  more  refin’d  and  sweet, 

The  fairest  garden  in  her  looks, 

And  in  her  mind  the  wisest  books. 

Oh,  who  would  change  these  soft,  yet  solid  joys, 

For  empty  shows,  and  senseless  noise  ; 

And  all  which  rank  ambition  breeds, 

Which  seem  such  beauteous  flowers,  and  are  such  poisonous 
weeds  ? 

When  Epicurus  to  the  world  had  taught 
That  pleasure  was  the  chiefest  good, 

(And  was  perhaps  i’  th’  right,  if  rightly  understood), 

His  life  he  to  his  doctrine  brought, 

And  in  a garden’s  shade  that  sovereign  pleasure  sought : 


ISO 


THOUGHTS  OF  COWLEY  ON  A GARDEN. 


Whoever  a true  epicure  would  be, 

May  there  find  cheap  and  virtuous  luxury 
Vi  tell  ills’  table,  which  did  hold 
As  many  creatures  as  the  ark  of  old, 

That  fiscal  table  to  which  every  day 
All  countries  did  a constant  tribute  pay, 

Could  nothing  more  delicious  afford, 

Than  nature’s  liberality 
Help’d  with  a little  art  and  industry 
Allows  the  meanest  gard’ner’s  board. 

The  wanton  taste  no  fish  or  fowl  can  choose, 
For  which  the  grape  or  melon  she  would  lose 
Though  all  th’  inhabitants  of  sea  and  air 
Be  listed  in  the  glutton’s  bill  of  fare, 

Yet  still  the  fruits  of  earth  we  see 
Plac’d  the  third  story  high  in  all  her  luxury. 

Where  does  the  wisdom  and  the  power  divine 
In  a more  bright  and  sweet  reflection  shine, — 
Where  do  we  finer  strokes  and  colors  see 
Of  the  Creator’s  real  poetry, 

Than  when  we  with  attention  look 
Upon  the  third  day’s  volume  of  the  book  % 

If  we  could  open  and  intend  our  eye, 

We  all,  like  Moses,  should  espy, 

Ev’n  in  a bush,  the  radiant  Deity. 

But  we  despise  these  his  inferior  ways 
(Though  no  less  full  of  miracle  and  praise)  : 

Upon  the  flowers  of  heaven  we  gaze  ; 

The  stars  of  earth  no  wonder  in  us  raise, 

Though  these  perhaps  do,  more  than  they, 
The  life  of  mankind  sway. 

Although  no  part  of  mighty  nature  be 


THOUGHTS  OF  COWLEY  ON  A GARDEN. 


181 


More  stor’d  with  beauty,  power  and  mystery, 

Yet,  to  encourage  human  industry, 

God  has  so  order’d,  that  no  other  part 
Such  space  and  such  dominion  leaves  for  art. 

We  nowhere  art  do  so  triumphant  see, 

As  when  it  grafts  or  buds  the  tree  : 

In  other  things  we  count  it  to  excel, 

If  it  a docile  scholar  can  appear 
To  nature,  and  but  imitate  her  well  ; 

It  over-rules  and  is  her  master  here. 

It  imitates  her  Maker’s  power  divine, 

And  changes  her  sometimes  and  sometimes  does  refine 
It  does,  like  grace,  the  fallen  tree  restore, 

To  its  blest  state  of  Paradise  before. 

Who  would  not  joy  to  see  his  conquering  hand 
O’er  all  the  vegetable  world  command  ? 

And  the  wild  giants  of  the  w7ood  receive 
What  law  lie’s  pleas’d  to  give  ? 

He  bids  th’  ill-natur’d  crab  produce 
The  genfler  apple’s  winy  juice, 

The  golden  fruit  that  worthy  is 
Of  Galatea’s  purple  kiss  : 

He  does  the  savage  hawthorn  teach 
To  bear  the  medlar  and  the  pear  ; 

He  bids  the  rustic  plum  to  rear 
A noble  trunk,  and  be  a peach. 

Even  Daphne’s  coyness  he  doth  mock, 

And  weds  the  cherry  to  her  stock. 

Though  she  refus’d  Apollo’s  suit, 

Even  she,  that  chaste  and  virgin  tree, 

Now  wonders  at  herself  to  see 
That  she’s  a mother  made,  and  blushes  in  her  fruit. 


182 


THOUGHTS  OF  COWLEY  ON  A GARDEN . 


Methinks  I see  great  Dioclesian  walk 
In  the  Salonian  garden’s  noble  shade, 

Which  by  his  own  imperial  hands  was  made  ; 

I see  him  smile  (methinks)  as  he  does  talk 
With  tli’  ambassadors  who  come  in  vain 
T’  entice  him  to  a throne  again. 

If  I,  my  friends  (said  he),  should  to  you  show 
All  the  delights  which  in  these  gardens  grow, 

’Tis  likelier  much  that  you  should  with  me  stay, 

Than  ’tis  that  you  should  carry  me  away. 

And  trust  me  not,  my  friends,  if  every  day 
I walk  not  here  with  more  delight 
Than  ever,  after  the  most  happy  fight8 
In  triumph  to  the  capitol  I rode, 

To  thank  the  gods,  and  to  be  thought,  myself,  almost  a god. 

A noble  finish  that,  to  a sometimes  prosaical,  often  poetical,  and 
always  engaging  and  thoughtful  effusion. 

The  garden  possessed  by  Cowley’s  friend  Evelyn  was  at  his  seat 
of  Sayes  Court,  Deptford.  It  contained,  among  other  beauties,  an 
enormous  hedge  of  holty,  which  made  a glorious  show  in  winter  time 
with  its  shining  red  berries.  The  Czar  Peter,  who  came  to  England 
in  Evelyn’s  time,  and  occupied  his  house,  took  delight  (by  way  of 
procuring  himself  a strong  Russian  sensation),  in  being  drawn  through 
this  hedge  “ in  a wheel-barrow  !”  He  left  it  in  sad  condition  accord- 
ingly, to  the  disgust  and  lamentation  of  the  owner.  The  garden  cuts 
rather  a formal  and  solemn  figure,  to  modern  eyes,  in  the  engraving? 
that  remain  of  it.  But  such  engravings  can  suggest  little  of  color  and 
movement  of  flowers  and  the  breathing  trees  ; and  our  ancestors  hac 
more  reason  to  admire  those  old  orderly  creations  of  theirs  than  mod- 
ern improvement  allows.  We  are  too  apt  to  suppose  that  one  thing 
cannot  be  good,  because  another  is  better ; or  that  an  improvement 
cannot  too  often  reject  what  it  might  include  or  ameliorate.  There 
was  no  want  of  enthusiasm  in  the  admirers  of  the  old  style,  whethei 
they  were  right  or  wrong.  Hear  what  an  arbiter  of  taste  in  the  nex 
age  said  of  it,  the  famous  Sir  William  Temple.  He  wras  an  honest 


THOUGHTS  ON  RETIREMENT. 


183 


statesman  and  mild  Epicurean  philosopher,  in  the  real  sense  of  that 
designation ; that  is  to  say,  temperate  and  reflecting,  and  fonder  of  a 
garden  and  the  friends  about  him  than  of  anything  else.  He  was  a 
great  cultivator  of  fruit.  He  had  the  rare  pleasure  of  obtaining  the 
retirement  he  loved ; first  at  Sheen,  near  Richmond,  in  Surrey,  which 
is  the  place  alluded  to  in  the  following  “ Thoughts  on  Retirement 
and,  secondly,  at  Moor  Park,  near  Farnham,  in  the  same  county — a 
residence  probably  named  after  the  Moor  Park  which  he  eulogizes  in 
the  subsequent  description  of  a garden.  In  the  garden  of  his  house 
at  Farnham  he  directed  that  his  heart  should  he  buried  ; and  it  was. 
The  sun-dial,  under  which  he  desired  it  might  be  deposited,  is  still 
remaining. 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE’S  THOUGHTS  ON 
RETIREMENT. 


FROM  ONE  OF  HIS  LETTERS. 


S the  country  life,  and  this  part  of  it  more  particularly 


-IL  (gardening),  were  the  inclination  of  my  youth  itself,  so 
they  are  the  pleasure  of  my  age  ; and  I - can  truly  say,  that, 
among  many  great  employments  that  have  fallen  to  my  share, 
I have  never  asked  or  sought  for  any  one  of  them,  but  often 
endeavored  to  escape  from  them  into  the  ease  and  freedom 
of  a private  scene,  where  a man  may  go  his  own  way  and  his 
own  pace,  in  the  common  paths  or  circles  of  life. 

“ Inter  cuncta  leges  et  per  cunctabere  doctos 
Qua  ratione  queas  traducere  leniter  sevum, 

Quid  minuat  curae,  quid  te  tibi  reddet  amicum  ; 

Quid  pure  tranquillet,  honos,  an  dulce  lucellum, 

An  secretum  iter,  et  fallentis  semita  vitae. ” 

But  above  all  the  learned  read,  and  ask 
By  what  means  you  may  gently  pass  your  age, 

What  lessens  care,  what  makes  thee  thine  own  friend, 

What  truly  calms  the  mind ; honor,  or  wealth, 

Or  else  a private  path  of  stealing  life 


184 


THOUGHTS  ON  RETIREMENT. 


These  are  the  questions  that  a man  ought  at  least  to  ask 
himself,  whether  he  asks  others  or  no,  and  to  choose  his 
course  of  life  rather  by  his  own  humor  and  temper,  than  by 
common  accidents,  or  advice  of  friends ; at  least  if  the 
Spanish  proverb  be  true,  That  a fool  knows  more  in  his  own 
house  than  a wise  man  in  another’s. 

The  measure  of  choosing  well  is,  whether  a man  likes 
what  he  has  chosen  ; which,  I thank  God,  is  what  has  be- 
fallen me ; and  though  among  the  follies  of  my  life,  building 
and  planting  have  not  been  the  least,  and  have  cost  me  more 
than  I have  the  confidence  to  own,  yet  they  have  been  fully 
recompensed  by  the  sweetness  and  satisfaction  of  this  retreat, 
where,  since  my  resolution  taken  of  never  entering  again  into 
any  public  employments,  I have  passed  five  years  without 
ever  going  once  to  town,  though  I am  almost  in  sight  of  it 
and  have  a house  there  always  ready  to  receive  me.  Nor 
has  this  been  any  sort  of  affectation,  as  some  have  thought 
it,  but  a mere  want,  of  desire  or  humor  to  make  so  small  a 
remove : for  when  I am  in  this  corner,  I can  truly  say  with 
Horace, 

“ Me  quoties  reficit  gelidus  Digentia  rivus, 

Quid  sentire  putas,  quid  credis,  amice,  piecari  1 
Sit  mihi,  quod  nunc  est,  etiam  minus,  ut  mihi  vivai: 

Quod  superest  aevi,  si  quid  superesse  volunt  Di. 

Sit  bona  librorum,  et  provisas  frugis  in  annum 
Copia,  ne  fluitem  dubias  spe  pendulus  boras ; 

Hoc  satis  est  orare  Jovem,  qui  donat  et  aufert.’’ 

Me  when  the  cold  Digentian  stream  revives, 

What  does  my  friend  believe  I think  or  ask  'l 
Let  me  yet  lesf  possess,  so  I may  live, 

Whate’er  of  life  remains,  unto  myself. 

May  I have  books  enough,  and  one  year’s  store, 

Not  to  depend  upon  each  doubtful  hour; 

This  is  enough  of  mighty  Jove  to  pray, 

Who,  as  he  pleases,  gives  and  takes  away. 


AN  OLD  ENGLISH  GARDEN. 


185 


AN  OLD  ENGLISH  GARDEN  OF  THE  SEVEN- 
TEENTH CENTURY. 

FROM  THE  ESSAYS  OF  SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 

THE  perfectest  figure  of  a garden  I ever  saw,  either  at 
home  or  abroad,  was  that  of  Moor  Park  in  Hertfordshire, 
when  I knew  it  about  thirty  years  ago.  It  was  made  by  the 
Countess  of  Bedford,  esteemed  among  the  greatest  wits  of 
her  time,  and  celebrated  by  Dr.  Donne.  I will  describe  it 
for  a model  to  those  that  meet  with  such  a situation,  and  are 
above  the  regards  of  common  expense.  It  lies  on  the  side 
of  a hill  (upon  which  the  house  stands),  but  not  very  steep. 
The  length  of  the  house,  where  the  best  rooms  and  of  most 
use  or  pleasure  are,  lies  upon  the  breadth  of  the  garden. 
The  great  parlor  opens  into  the  middle  of  a terras  gravel- 
walk  that  lies  even  with  it,  and  which  may  be,  as  I remember, 
about  three  hundred  paces  long,  and  broad  in  proportion; 
the  border  set  with  standard  laurels,  and  at  large  distances, 
which  have  the  beauty  of  orange-trees,  out  of  flower  and  fruit. 
From  this  walk  are  three  descents  by  many  stone  steps,  in 
the  middle  and  at  each  end,  into  a very  large  parterre.  This 
is  divided  into  quarters  by  gravel-walks,  and  adorned  by  two 
fountains-  and  eight  statues  in  the  several  quarters.  At  the 
end  of  the  terras-walk  are  two  summer-houses,  and  the  sides 
of  the  parterre  are  ranged  with  two  large  cloisters,  open  to 
the  garden,  upon  arches  of  stone,  and  ending  with  two  other 
summer-houses  even  with  the  cloisters,  which  are  paved  with 
stone,  and  designed  for  walks  of  shade,  there  being  none 
other  in  the  whole  parterre.  Over  these  two  cloisters  are 
two  terrasses  covered  with  lead,  and  fenced  with  balusters ; 
and  the  passage  into  these  airy  walks  is  out  of  the  two  sum- 
mer-houses at  the  end  of  the  first  terras-walk.  The  cloister 


186 


AN  OLD  ENGLISH  GARDEN 


facing  the  south  is  covered  with  vines,  and  would  have  been 
proper  for  an  orange-house,  and  the  other  for  myrtles,  or 
other  more  common  greens,*  and  had,  I doubt  not,  been  cast 
for  that  purpose,  if  this  piece  of  gardening  had  been  in  as 
much  vogue  as  it  is  now. 

From  the  middle  of  the  parterre  is  a descent  by  many 
steps,  flying  on  each  side  of  a grotto  that  lies  between  them 
(covered  with  lead,  and  flat)  into  the  lower  garden,  which  is 
all  fruit-trees,  ranged  about  the  several  quarters  of  a wilder- 
ness which  is  very  shady.  The  walks  here  are  all  green,  the 
grotto  embellished  with  figures  of  shell-rock-work,  fountains, 
and  water-works.  If  the  hill  had  not  ended  with  the  lower 
garden,  and  the  wall  were  not  bounded  by  a common  way  that 
goes  through  the  park,  they  might  have  added  a third  quar- 
ter of  all  greens ; but  this  want  is  supplied  by  a garden  on 
the  other  side  the  house,  which  is  all  of  that  sort,  very  wild 
very  shady,  and  adorned  with  rough  rock-work  and  fountains. 

This  was  Moor  Park  when  I was  acquainted  with  it,  and 
the  sweetest  place,  I think,  that  I have  seen  in  my  life,  either 
before  or  since,  at  home  or  abroad.  What  it  is  now  I can 
give  little  account,  having  passed  through  several  hands  that 
have  made  great  changes  in  gardens  as  well  as  houses  ; but 
the  remembrance  of  what  it  was  is  too  pleasant  ever  to  forget. 

The  taste  of  Sir  William  Temple  in  gardening  prevailed  more  or 
less  up  to  the  time  of  George  the  Third ; but  though  Milton  had  in 
some  degree  countenanced  it,  or  appeared  to  do  so,  in  the  couplet  in 
which  he  speaks  of 

“Retired  leisure. 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure,77 

yet  the  very  universality  of  right  feeling  natural  to  a poet  could  not 
help  running  out  of  such  bounds,  when  he  came  to  describe  a garden 
fit  for  paradise.  Spenser  had  set  him  the  example  in  his  “ Bower  of 

* Orecns  formerly  meant  plants  in  general. 


OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


187 


Bliss and  Tasso,  who  is  supposed  to  have  drawn  from  some  actual 
gardens  in  his  own  time,  had  set  Spenser  himself  the  example  in  his 
beautiful  account  of  the  bowers  of  Armida.  The  probability  is,  that 
in  all  great  ages  Nature  had  spoken  on  the  subject,  in  particular  in- 
stances, to  the  feelings  of  genius.  Even  the  Chinese  are  thought  to 
have  anticipated  the  modern  taste,  though  with  their  usual  semi-bar- 
barous mixture  of  clumsy  magnificence  and  petty  details;  possibly 
not  always  so  much  so,  as  the  startled  invidiousness  of  their  betters 
has  supposed.  The  Chinese,  at  all  events,  are  very  fond  of  flowers, 
and  show  a truly  poetical  appreciation  of  their  merits,  as  may  be  seen 
in  the  charming  novel  of  Ju-Kiao-Li.  Milton’s  garden  of  Eden  made 
a great  impression,  when  Addison  dug  it  up  for  the  general  benefit  in 
his  articles  on  the  great  poet  in  the  Spectator.  Pope’s  good  sense  was 
naturally  on  the  side  of  it ; and  Shenstone  gave  into  it  with  practical 
and  masterly  enthusiasm.  Hence  the  rise  of  what  is  called  landscape 
gardening.  The  new  taste  ran  a little  wild  at  first  in  the  hands  of 
“ Kent  and  Nature  then  incurred  another  danger  in  more  mechani- 
cal hands ; but  has  finally  become  the  best  that  ever  existed,  by  the 
combination  of  a liberal  feeling  for  nature  with  the  avowed  and  local 
reasonableness  of  art.  Gardens  a re  now  adapted  to  places,  to  climates, 
and  to  the  demands  of  the  presence  of  a house ; that  is  to  say,  to  the 
compromise  which  the  house  naturally  tends  to  make  between  some- 
thing like  the  orderliness  and  comfort  inside  of  it.  and  the  nature 
which  art  goes  forth  to  meet.  This  is  the  reason  why  we  have  said 
we  should  like  to  have  two  gardens,  if  possible  : one  modified  from  the 
old  terraces  and  parterres  and  formal  groves  of  our  ancestors,  and  the 
other  from  the  wildness  of  “ Kent  and  Nature.”  If  required  to  choose 
between  the  two,  we  should  say,  Give  us  anything  comprising  a few 
trees,  a few  flowers,  a plot  of  grass,  a bench,  and  seclusion  ; — anything 
in  which  we  could  pace  up  and  down,  sit  when  we  pleased,  see  a little 
brilliant  color,  a good  deal  of  green,  and  not  be  overlooked.  What- 
ever did  this  best,  we  should  like  best,  whether  made  by  art  or  nature. 

There  was  a lady  in  the  time  of  Pope,  a true  poetess  (if  she  had 
but  known  it  and  taken  pains),  Lady  Winchilsea,  a friend  of  his,  who 
had  as  thorough  a taste  for  seclusion  on  the  romantic  side  as  ever  ex- 
isted. Her  maiden  name  was  Kingsmill;  her  husband  the  fifth  Earl 
of  Winchilsea,  of  the  same  family  that  now  possess  the  title.  Anne 
Kingsmill  was  an  open-hearted,  excellent  creature ; she  made  a loving 
friend  and  wife ; is  one  of  the  very  few  original  cbservers  of  nature 


188  PETITION  FOR  AN  ABSOLUTE  RETREAT. 


(as  Wordsworth  has  remarked)  who  appeared  in  an  artificial  age;  and 
deserves  to  have  been  gathered  into  collections  of  English  verse  far 
more  than  half  of  our  minor  poets.  We  will  give  a taste  or  two  of 
this  lady’s  style  from  her  poem  on  the  subject  of  retirement,  and  then 
conclude  the  present  department  of  our  book  with  two  papers  out  of 
the  periodical  works  of  Mackenzie,  worthy  to  have  been  read  by  her- 
self, and  more  suited  to  the  desires  of  readers  in  general.  There  is  a 
great  deal  more  of  the  poem,  all  creditable  to  the  writer’s  turn  of 
mind,  but  not  choice  enough  in  style  for  a book  of  selection.  AVe  beg 
the  reader’s  admiration  for  the  burden  at  the  close  of  each  paragraph. 


PETITION  FOR  AN  ABSOLUTE  RETREAT. 

FROM  A POEM  BY  THE  COUNTESS  OF  AYINCHILSEA. 

GIVE  me,  0 indulgent  Fate, 

Give  me  yet  before  I die, 

A sweet,  but  absolute  retreat, 

’Mongst  paths  so  lost,  and  trees  so  high, 

That  the  world  may  ne’er  invade, 

Through  such  windings  and  such  shade, 

My  unshaken  liberty. 

No  intruders  thither  come, 

Who  visit  but  to  be  from  home  ; 

None  who  their  vain  moments  pass 
Only  studious  of  their  glass. 

News,  that  charm  to  listening  ears, 

That  false  alarm  to  hopes  and  fears, 

That  common  theme  for  every  fop 
From  the  statesman  to  the  shop, 

In  these  coverts  ne’er  be  spread ; 

Of  who’s  deceas’d  or  who’s  to  wed 
Be  no  tidings  thither  brought ; 

But  silent  as  a midnight  thought, 


PETITION  FOR  AN  ABSOLUTE  RETREAT.  189 


Where  the  world  may  ne’er  invade. 

Be  those  windings  and  that  shade. 

Courteous  Fate  ! afford  me  there 
A table  spread,  without  my  care, 

With  what  the  neighb’ring  fields  impart, 
Whose  cleanliness  be  all  its  art. 

When  of  old  the  calf  was  drest 
(Though  to  make  an  angel’s  feast) 

In  the  plain,  unstudied  sauce 
Nor  truffle,  nor  morillia  was, 

Nor  cou’d  the  mighty  patriarch’s  board 
One  far-fetch’d  ortolan  afford. 

Courteous  Fate,  then  give  me  there 
Only  plain  and  wholesome  fare. 

Fruits  indeed  (wou’d  Heaven  bestow) 

All  that  did  in  Eden  grow, 

All,  but  the  forbidden  tree 7 
Wou’d  be  coveted  by  me ; 

Grapes  with  juice  so  crowded  up, 

As  breaking  thro’  the  native  cup; 

Figs  (yet  growing)  candy’d  o’er 
By  the  sun’s  attracting  pow’r  ; 

Cherries,  with  the  downy  peach, 

All  within  my  easy  reach  ; 

Whilst  creeping  near  the  humble  ground 
Shou’d  the  strawberry  be  found, 

Springing  wheresoe’er  I stray’d 
Thro’  those  windings  and  that  shade. 

Give  me  there  (since  Heaven  has  shown 
It  was  not  good  to  be  alone) 

A partner  suited  to  my  mind, 

Solitary,  pleas’d,  and  kind  ; 


190  PETITION  FOR  AN  ABSOLUTE  RETREAT 


Who,  partially,  may  something  see 
Preferr’d  to  all  the  world  in  me  ; 

Slighting,  by  my  humble  side, 

Fame  and  splendor,  wealth  and  pride. 
When  but  two  the  earth  possest, 

’Twas  their  happiest  days,  and  best ; 

They  by  business,  nor  by  wars, 

They  by  no  domestic  cares, 

From  each  other  e’er  were  drawn, 

But  in  some  grove  or  flow’ry  lawn 
Spent  the  swiftly  flying  time, 

Spent  their  own  and  nature’s  prime 
In  love,  that  only  passion  given 
To  perfect  man,  whilst  friends  with  Heaven, 
Rage,  and  jealousy,  and  hate, 

Transports  of  his  fallen  state, 

When  by  Satan’s  wiles  betray’d, 

Fly  those  windings,  and  that  shade  ! 

Let  me  then,  indulgent  Fate  ! 

Let  me  still  in  my  retreat 
From  all  roving  thoughts  be  freed, 

Or  aims  that  may  contention  breed  ; 

Nor  be  my  endeavors  led 
By  goods  that  perish  with  the  dead  ! 

Fitly  might  the  life  of  man 
Be  indeed  esteem’d  a span, 

If  the  present  moment  were 
Of  delight  his  only  share  ; 

If  no  other  joys  he  knew 

Than  what  round  about  him  grew  : 

But  as  those  whose  stars  would  trace 
From  a subterranean  place, 


PETITION  FOR  AN  ABSOLUTE  RETREAT. 


Through  some  engine  lift  their  eyes 
To  the  outward  glorious  skies  ; 

So  tli’  immortal  spirit  may, 

When  descended  to  our  clay, 

From  a rightly  govern’d  frame 

Yiew  the  height  from  whence  she  came  ; 

To  her  Paradise  be  caught, 

And  things  unutterable  taught. 

Give  me,  then,  in  that  retreat, 

Give  me,  0 indulgent  Fate  ! 

For  all  pleasures  left  behind, 
Contemplations  of  the  mind 
Let  the  fair,  the  gay,  the  vain, 

Courtship  and  applause  obtain  ; 

Let  tli’  ambitious  rule  the  earth ; 

Let  the  giddy  fool  have  mirth  ; 

Give  the  epicure  his  dish, 

Every  one  their  several  wish ; 

Whilst  my  transports  I employ 
On  that  more  extensive  joy, 

When  all  Heaven  shall  be  survey’d 
From  those  windings  and  that  shad**. 


$tt  nli  Cntmirq  J&rnt  mt  an  nli  jCnilij. 

from  Mackenzie’s  “lounger”  no.  87. 

The  old  lady  described  in  the  following  charming  paper  of  Mac- 
kenzie (which  was  a favorite  with  Sir  Walter  Scott),  is  not  of  so  large- 
minded  an  order  as  Lady  Wiuchilsea,  but  she  has  as  good  a heart ; is 
very  touching  and  pleasant ; and  her  abode  suits  her  admirably.  It 
is  the  remnant  of  something  that  would  have  been  greater  in  a greater 
age.  We  fancy  her  countenance  to  have  been  one  that  wTould  have  re- 
minded us  of  the  charming  old  face  in  Drayton  : 

u Ev’n  in  the  aged’st  face  where  beauty  once  did  dwell, 

And  Nature  in  the  least  but  seemed  to  excel, 

Time  cannot  make  such  waste,  but  something  will  appear 
To  show  some  little  tract  of  delicacy  there.” 

Polyolbion. 

The  reader,  perhaps,  hardly  requires  to  be  told  that  Mackenzie, 
whose  writings  have  been  gathered  into  the  British  classics,  was  a 
Scottish  gentleman,  bred  to  the  bar,  who  in  his  youth  wrote  the  once 
popular  novel  called  the  Man  of  Feeling , and  died  not  long  ago  at  a 
reverend  age,  universally  regretted.  He  was  the  editor  and  principal 
writer  of  the  two  periodical  works  called  the  Mirror  and  Lounger , to 
which  several  of  the  reigning  Scottish  wits  contributed.  He  was  not 
a very  original  or  powerful  writer,  but  he  was  a very  shrewd,  elegant, 
and  pleasing  one,  a happy  offset  from  Addison ; and  he  sometimes 
showed  great  pathos.  His  stories  of  La  Roche  and  Louisa  Venoni  are 
among  the  most  affecting  in  the  world,  and  free  from  the  somewhat 


AN  OLD  COUNTRY  HOUSE. 


193 


morbid  softness  of  his  novel.  We  are  the  happier  in  being  able  to  do 
this  tardy,  though  very  unnecessary  justice  to  the  merits  of  a good 
man  and  a graceful  essayist,  because  in  the  petulance  and  presumption 
of  youth  we  had  mistaken  our  incompetence  to  judge  them  for  the 
measure  of  their  pretensions. 

I HAVE  long  cultivated  a talent  very  fortunate  for  a man 
of  my  disposition,  that  of  travelling  in  my  easy  chair ; 
of  transporting  myself,  without  stirring  from  my  parlor,  to 
distant  places  and  to  absent  friends ; of  drawing  scenes  in 
my  mind’s  eye ; and  of  peopling  them  with  the  groups  of 
fancy,  or  the  society  of  remembrance.  When  I have  some- 
times lately  felt  the  dreariness  of  the  town,  deserted  by  my 
acquaintance ; when  I have  returned  from  the  coffee-house, 
where  the  boxes  were  unoccupied,  and  strolled  out  from  my 
accustomed  walk,  which  even  the  lame  beggar  had  left,  I 
was  fain  to  shut  myself  up  in  my  room,  order  a dish  of  my 
best  tea  (for  there  is  a sort  of  melancholy  which  disposes 
one  to  make  much  of  one’s  self),  and  calling  up  the  powers 
of  memory  and  imagination,  leave  the  solitary  town  for  a 
solitude  more  interesting,  which  my  younger  days  enjoyed 
in  the  country,  which  I think,  and  if  I am  wrong  I do  not 
wish  to  be  undeceived,  was  the  most  Elysian  spot  in  the 
world. 

’Twas  at  an  old  lady’s,  a relation  and  godmother  of 
mine,  where  a particular  incident  occasioned  my  being  left 
during  the  vacation  of  two  successive  seasons.  Her  house 
was  formed  out  of  the  remains  of  an  old  Gothic  castle,  of 
which  one  tower  was  still  almost  entire  ; it  was  tenanted 
by  kindly  daws  and  swallows.  Beneath,  in  a modernized 
part  of  the  house,  resided  the  mistress  of  the  mansion.  The 
house  was  skirted  by  a few  majestic  elms  and  beeches,  and 
the  stumps  of  several  others  showed  that  once  they  had  been 
9 


194 


AN  OLD  COUNTRY  HOUSE 


more  numerous.  To  the  west  a clump  of  firs  covered  a rug 
ged  rocky  dell,  where  the  rooks  claimed  a prescriptive  seign 
ory.  Through  this  a dashing  rivulet  forced  its  way,  which 
afterwards  grew  quiet  in  its  progress ; and  gurgling  gently 
through  a piece  of  downy  meadow-ground,  crossed  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  where  a little  rustic  paling  enclosed  a washing- 
green,  and  a wicker  seat,  fronting  the  south,  was  placed  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  old  lady,  whose  lesser  tour,  when 
her  fields  did  not  require  a visit,  used  to  terminate  in  this 
spot.  Here,  too,  were  ranged  the  hives  for  her  bees,  whose 
hum,  in  a still  warm  sunshine,  soothed  the  good  old  lady’s 
indolence,  while  their  proverbial  industry  was  sometimes 
quoted  for  the  instruction  of  her  washers.  The  brook  ran 
brawling  through  some  underwood  on  the  outside  of  the  gar- 
den, and  soon  after  formed  a little  cascade,  which  fell  into 
the  river  that  winded  through  a valley  in  front  of  the  house. 
When  hay-making  or  harvest  was  going  on,  my  godmother 
took  her  long  stick  in  her  hand,  and  overlooked  the  labors  of 
the  mowers  or  reapers  ; though  I believe  there  was  little 
thrift  in  the  superintendency,  as  the  visit  generally  cost  her 
a draught  of  beer  or  a dram,  to  encourage  their  diligence. 

Within  doors  she  had  so  able  an  assistant,  that  her  labor 
was  little.  In  that  department  an  old  man-servant  was  her 
minister,  the  father  of  my  Peter,  who  serves  me  not  the  less 
faithfully  that  we  have  gathered  nuts  together  in  my  god- 
mother’s hazel-bank.  This  old  butler  (I  call  him  by  his 
title  of  honor,  though  in  truth  he  had  many  subordinate 
offices)  had  originally  enlisted  with  her  husband,  who  went 
into  the  army  a youth  (though  he  afterwards  married  and  be- 
came a country  gentleman),  had  been  his  servant  abroad,  and 
attended  him  during  his  last  illness  at  home.  His  best  hat, 
which  he  wore  on  Sundays,  with  a scarlet  waistcoat  of  his 
master’s,  had  still  a cockade  in  it. 


AND  AN  OLD  LADY. 


195 


Her  husband’s  books  were  in  a room  at  the  top  of  a screw 
staircase,  which  had  scarce  been  opened  since  his  death ; but 
her  own  library,  for  Sabbath  or  rainy  days,  was  ranged  in  a 
little  book-press  in  the  parlor.  It  consisted,  so  far  as  I can 
remember,  of  several  volumes  of  sermons,  a Concordance , 
Thomas  d Kempis , Antoninus’s  Meditations , the  works  of 
the  author  of  the  Whole  Duty  of  Man , and  a translation  of 
Boethius  ; the  original  editions  of  the  Spectator  and  Guar- 
dian^ Coivley’s  Poems  (of  which  I had  lost  a volume  soon 
after  I first  came  about  her  house),  Baker’s  Chronicle , Bur- 
net’s History  of  his  oion  Times , Lamb’s  Royal  Cookery , Aber- 
cromby’s  Scots  Warriors , and  Nisbet’s  Heraldry . 

The  subject  of  the  last-mentioned  book  was  my  god- 
mother’s strong  ground  ; and  she  could  disentangle  a point 
of  genealogy  beyond  any  one  I ever  knew.  She  had  an  ex- 
cellent memory  for  anecdotes ; and  her  stories,  though  some- 
times long,  were  never  tiresome ; for  she  had  been  a woman 
of  great  beauty  and  accomplishment  in  her  youth,  and  had 
kept  such  company  as  made  the  drama  of  her  stories  respec- 
table and  interesting.  She  spoke  frequently  of  such  of  her 
own  family  as  she  remembered  when  a child,  but  scarcely 
ever  of  those  she  had  lost,  though  one  could  see  she  thought 
of  them  often.  She  had  buried  a beloved  husband  and  four 
children.  Her  youngest,  Edward,  s(  her  beautiful  her  brave,” 
fell  in  Flanders,  and  was  not  entombed  with  his  ancestors. 
His  picture,  done  when  a child,  an  artless  red  and  white  por- 
trait, smelling  at  a nosegay,  but  very  like  withal,  hung  at  her 
bed-side,  and  his  sword  and  gorget  were  crossed  under  it. 
When  she  spoke  of  a soldier,  it  was  in  a style  above  her  usual 
simplicity  ; there  was  a sort  of  swell  in  her  language,  which 
sometimes  a tear  (for  her  age  had  not  lost  the  privilege  of 
tears)  made  still  more  eloquent.  She  kept  her  sorrows,  like 
her  devotions  that  solaced  them,  sacred  to  herself.  They 


196 


AN  OLD  COUNTRY  HOUSE 


threw  nothing  of  gloom  over  her  deportment ; a gentle  shade 
only,  like  the  fleckered  clouds  of  summer,  that  increase,  not 
diminish,  the  benignity  of  the  season. 

She  had  few  neighbors,  and  still  fewer  visitors ; but  her 
reception  of  such  as  did  visit  her  was  cordial  in  the  extreme. 
She  pressed  a little  too  much,  perhaps ; but  there  was  so 
much  heart  and  good-will  in  her  importunity,  as  made  her 
good  things  seem  better  than  those  of  any  other  table.  Nor 
was  her  attention  confined  only  to  the  good  fare  of  her  guests, 
though  it  might  have  flattered  her  vanity  more  than  that  of 
most  exhibitors  of  good  dinners,  because  the  cookery  was 
generally  directed  by  herself.  Their  servants  lived  as  well 
in  her  hall,  and  their  horses  in  her  stable.  She  looked  after 
the  airing  of  their  sheets,  and  saw  their  fires  mended  if  the 
night  was  cold.  Her  old  butler,  who  rose  betimes,  would 
never  suffer  anybody  to  mount  his  horse  fasting. 

The  parson  of  the  parish  was  her  guest  every  Sunday, 
and  said  prayers  in  the  evening.  To  say  truth,  he  was  no 
great  genius,  nor  much  a scholar.  I believe  my  godmother 
knew  rather  more  of  divinity  than  he  did ; but  she  received 
from  him  information  of  another  sort : he  told  her  who  were 
the  poor,  the  sick,  the  dying  of  the  parish,  and  she  had  some 
assistance,  some  comfort  for  them  all. 

I could  draw  the  old  lady  at  this  moment ! dressed  in 
gray,  with  a clean  white  hood  nicely  plaited  (for  she  was 
somewhat  finical  about  the  neatness  of  her  person),  sitting  in 
her  straight-backed  elbow-chair,  which  stood  in  a large  win- 
dow, scooped  out  of  the  thickness  of  the  ancient  wall.  The 
middle  panes  of  the  window  were  of  painted  glass — the  story 
of  Joseph  and  his  brethren.  On  the  outside  waved  a honey- 
suckle tree,  which  often  threw  its  shade  across  her  book  or 
her  work  ; but  she  would  not  allow  it  to  be  cut  down.  “ It 
has  stood  there  many  a day,”  said  she,  “and  we  old  inhabi 


AND  AN  OLD  LADY. 


197 


tants  should  bear  with  one  another.”  Me  thinks  I see  her 
thus  seated,  her  spectacles  on,  but  raised  a little  on  her  brow 
for  a pause  of  explanation,  their  shagreen  case  laid  between 
the  leaves  of  a silver-clasped  family  Bible.  On  one  side,  her 
bell  and  snuff-box ; on  the  other,  her  knitting  apparatus  in  a 
blue  damask  bag. — Between  her  and  the  fire  an  old  Spanish 
pointer,  that  had  formerly  been  her  son  Edward’s,  teased,  but 
not  teased  out  of  his  gravity,  by  a little  terrier  of  mine. — All 
this  is  before  me,  and  I am  a hundred  miles  from  town,  its 
inhabitants,  and  its  business.  In  town  I may  have  seen  such 
a figure : but  the  country  scenery  around,  like  the  tasteful 
frame  of  an  excellent  picture,  gives  it  a heightening,  a relief, 
which  it  would  lose  in  any  other  situation. 

Some  of  my  readers,  perhaps,  will  look  with  little  relish 
on  the  portrait.  I know  it  is  an  egotism  in  me  to  talk  of 
its  value ; but  over  this  dish  of  tea,  and  in  such  a temper  of 
mind,  one  is  given  to  egotism.  It  will  be  only  adding  another 
to  say,  that  when  I recall  the  rural  scene  of  the  good  old 
lady’s  abode,  her  simple,  her  innocent,  her  useful  employ- 
ments, the  afflictions  she  sustained  in  this  world,  the  comforts 
she  drew  from  another,  I feel  a serenity  of  soul,  a benignity 
of  affections,  which  I am  sure  confer  happiness,  and  I think 
must  promote  virtue. 

This  delightful  paper  appears  to  have  had  its  just  effect  on  the 
readers  of  the  Lounger.  It  produced  some  pleasant  remarks  from  a 
correspondent  who  signed  himself  “Urbanus;”  and  these  remarks 
produced  a letter  from  the  Editor  himself,  under  the  signature  of 
“ Adrastus,”  which  contains  a sort  of  character  of  an  Old  Gentleman 
to  match  that  of  the  Old  Lady,  and  has  also  a tone  of  reflection  that 
will  sensibly  affect  most  readers,  especially  those  at  a similar  time 
of  life. 


198 


LOVE  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


LOVE  OF  THE  COUNTRY  IN  THE  DECLINE 
OF  LIFE. 

FRPM  THE  SAME,  NO.  93. 

SIR, — I,  as  well  as  your  correspondent  Urbanus,  was  very 
much  pleased  with  your  late  paper  on  the  moral  use  of 
the  country,  and  the  portrait  of  the  excellent  lady  it  contain- 
ed. I am  an  old  man,  sir,  but  thank  God,  with  all  my  facul- 
ties and  feelings  entire  and  alive  about  me ; and  your  de- 
scription recalled  to  my  memory  some  worthy  characters  with 
which  my  youth  was  acquainted,  and  which,  I am  inclined  to 
believe,  I should  find  it  a little  difficult,  were  I even  disposed 
to  look  out  for  them,  to  supply  now.  At  my  time  of  life, 
friends  are  a treasure  which  the  fortunate  may  have  preserv- 
ed, but  the  most  fortunate  can  hardly  acquire  ; and  if  I am 
not  mistaken  in  my  opinion  of  the  present  race,  there  are  not 
many  friendships  among  them  which  I would  be  solicitous  to 
acquire  or  they  will  be  likely  to  preserve.  It  is  not  of  their 
little  irregularities  or  imprudencies  I complain  ; I know  these 
must  always  be  expected  and  pardoned  in  the  young  ; and 
there  are  few  of  us  old  people  who  can  recollect  our  youthful 
days  without  having  some  things  of  that  sort  to  blush  for. 
No,  Mr.  Lounger,  it  is  their  prudence,  their  wisdom,  their 
foresight,  their  policy,  I find  fault  with.  They  put  on  the 
livery  of  the  world  so  early,  and  have  so  few  of  the  weaknesses 
of  feeling  or  of  fancy  ! To  this  cause  I impute  the  want  of 
that  rural  sentiment  which  your  correspondent  Urbanus  seems 
to  suppose  is  banished  only  from  the  country  retreats  of 
town  dissipation,  from  the  abodes  of  fashionable  and  frivolous 
people,  who  carry  all  the  follies  and  pleasures  of  a city  into 
scenes  destined  for  rural  simplicity  and  rural  enjoyment. 
But  in  truth,  sir,  the  people  of  the  country  themselves,  who 


IN  THE  DECLINE  OF  LIFE. 


199 


never  knew  fashionable  life,  or  city  dissipation,  have  now  ex- 
changed the  simple-hearted  pleasures  which  in  my  younger 
days  were  common  among  them,  for  ideas  of  a much  more 
selfish  sort.  Most  of  my  young  acquaintance  there  (and  I 
spend  at  least  eight  months  of  the  year  in  the  country)  are 
really  arrived  at  that  prudent  way  of  estimating  things  which 
we  used  to  be  diverted  with  in  Hudibras : 

“ For  what’s  the  value  of  a thing, 

But  as  much  money  as  ’twill  bring  V’ 

Their  ambition,  their  love,  their  friendship,  all  have  this  ten- 
dency ; and  their  no-ambition,  their  no-love,  their  no-friend- 
ship, or,  in  one  word,  their  indifference  about  every  object 
from  which  some  worldly  advantage  is  not  to  be  drawn,  is 
equally  observable  on  the  other  hand.  On  such  a disposition, 
Mr.  Lounger,  what  impression  is  to  be  made  by  rural  objects 
or  rural  scenery  ? The  visions  which  these  paint  in  fancy,  or 
the  tender  ties  they  have  on  remembrance,  cannot  find  room 
in  an  imagination  or  a heart  made  callous  by  selfish  and  in- 
terested indifference.  5Tis  with  regret  rather  than  resent- 
ment that  I perceive  this  sort  of  turn  so  prevalent  among 
the  young  people  of  my  acquaintance,  or  those  with  whom 
I am  connected.  I have  now,  alas  ! no  child  of  my  own  in 
whom  I can  either  lament  such  a failing,  or  be  proud  of  the 
want  of  it. 

I think  myself  happy,  sir,  that,  even  at  my  advanced  pe- 
riod of  life,  I am  still  susceptible  of  such  impressions  as  those 
which  our  87th  Number  imputes  to  rural  contemplation.  At 
this  season,  above  all  others,  methinks  they  are  to  be  enjoy- 
ed. Now  in  this  fading  time  of  the  year,  when  the  flush  of 
vegetation  and  the  glow  of  maturity  is  past,  when  the  fields 
put  oji  a sober  or  rather  saddened  appearance,  I look  on  the 
well-known  scenery  around  my  country  dwelling,  as  I would 


200 


LOVE  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


on  a friend  fallen  from  the  pride  of  prosperity  to  a more 
humble  and  more  interesting  situation.  The  withering  grass 
that  whistles  on  the  unsheltered  bank;  the  fallen  leaves 
strewed  over  the  woodland  path  ; the  silence  of  the  almost 
naked  copse,  which  not  long  ago  rung  with  the  music  of  the 
birds  ; the  flocking  of  their  little  tribes  that  seem  mute  with 
the  dread  of  ills  to  come  ; the  querulous  call  of  the  partridge 
in  the  bare  brown  field,  and  the  soft  low  song  of  the  red- 
breast from  the  household  shed  ; this  pensive  landscape,  with 
these  plaintive  accompaniments,  dimmed  by  a gray  October 
sky,  which  we  look  on  with  the  thoughts  of  its  shortened  and 
still  shortening  light ; all  this  presses  on  my  bosom  a certain 
still  and  gentle  melancholy,  which  I would  not  part  with  for 
all  the  pleasure  that  mirth  could  give,  for  all  the  luxury  that 
wealth  could  buy. 

You  say,  truly,  in  one  of  your  late  papers,  that  poetry  is 
almost  extinguished  among  us  : it  is  one  of  my  old-fashioned 
propensities  to  be  fond  of  poetry,  to  be  delighted  with  its 
descriptions,  to  be  affected  by  its  sentiments.  I find  genuine 
poetry  a sort  of  opening  to  the  feelings  of  my  mind,  to 
which  my  own  expression  could  not  give  vent ; I see  in  its 
descriptions  a picture  more  lively  and  better  composed,  than 
my  own  less  distinct  and  less  vivid  ideas  of  the  objects 
around  me  could  furnish.  It  is  with  such  impressions  that 
I read  the  following  lines  of  Thomson’s  Autumn  introduc- 
tive  of  the  solemn  and  beautiful  apostrophe  to  philosophic 
melancholy : — 

*'■  But  see  the  fading  many-color’d  woods, 

Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown ; a crowded  umbrage,  dusk  and  dun, 

Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.  These  now  the  lonesome  muse, 

Low  whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strown  walks, 

And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 


IN  THE  DECLINE  OF  LIFE. 


201 


“ Meantime,  light-shadowing  all,  a sober  calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether ; whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current;  while  illumined  wide 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 

And  through  their  lucid  veil  his  soften’d  force 
Shed  o’er  the  peaceful  world.  Then  is  the  time, 

For  those  whom  wisdom  and  whom  nature  charm, 

To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 

And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things ; 

To  tread  low-thoughted  vice  beneath  their  feet, 

To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace, 

And  woo  lone  quiet  in  her  silent  walks.” 

About  this  time  three  years,  sir,  I had  the  misfortune  to 
lose  a daughter,  the  last  survivor  of  my  family,  whom  her 
mother,  dying  at  her  birth,  left  a legacy  to  my  tenderness, 
who  closed  a life  of  the  most  exemplary  goodness,  of  the 
most  tender  filial  duty,  of  the  warmest  benevolence,  of  the 
most  exalted  piety,  by  a very  gradual  but  not  unperceived 
decay. 

When  I think  on  the  returning  season  of  this  calamity, 
when  I see  the  last  fading  flowers  of  autumn,  which  my 
Harriet  used  to  gather  with  a kind  of  sympathetic  sadness, 
and  hear  the  small  chirping  note  of  the  flocking  linnets,  which 
she  used  to  make  me  observe  as  the  elegy  of  the  year ! when 
I have  drawn  her  picture  in  the  midst  of  this  rural  scenery, 
and  then  reflected  on  her  many  virtues  and  accomplishments, 
on  her  early  and  unceasing  attention  to  myself,  her  gentle 
and  winning  manners  to  every  one  around  her ; when  I re- 
member her  resignation  during  the  progress  of  her  disorder, 
her  unshaken  and  sublime  piety  in  its  latest  stages ; when 
these  recollections  filled  my  mind,  in  conjunction  with  the 
drooping  images  of  the  season,  and  the  .cense  of  my  own 
waning  period  of  life  I feel  a mixture  of  sadness  and  of  com 

9* 


202 


LOVE  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


posure,  of  humility  and  of  elevation  of  spirit,  which  I think, 
sir,  a man  would  ill  exchange  for  any  degree  of  unfeeling 
prudence,  or  of  worldly  wisdom  and  indifference. 

The  attachment  to  rural  objects  is  like  that  family  affec- 
tion which  a warm  and  uncorrupted  mind  preserves  for  its 
relations  and  early  acquaintance.  In  a town,  the  lively  par- 
tiality and  predilections  for  these  relations  or  friends  is 
weakened  or  lost  in  the  general  intercourse  of  the  multitude 
around  us.  In  a town,  external  objects  are  so  common,  so 
unappropriated  to  ourselves,  and  are  so  liable  to  change  and 
to  de‘cay,  that  we  cannot  feel  any  close  or  permanent  connec- 
tion with  them.  In  the  country  we  remember  them  un- 
changed for  a long  space  of  time,  and  for  that  space  known 
and  frequented  by  scarce  any  but  ourselves.  u Methinks  I 
should  hate,”  says  a young  lady,  the  child  of  fiction,  yet  drawn 
with  many  features  like  that  excellent  girl  I lost,  “ methinks 
I should  hate  to  have  been  born  in  a town.  When  I say  my 
native  brook,  or  my  native  hill,  I talk  of  friends,  of  whom 
the  remembrance  warms  my  heart.”  When  the  memory  of 
persons  we  dearly  loved  is  connected  with  the  view  of  those 
objects,  they  have  then  a double  link  to  the  soul.  It  were 
tender  enough  for  me  to  view  some  ancient  trees  that  form 
my  common  evening  walk,  did  I only  remember  what  I was 
when  I first  sported  under  their  shade,  and  what  I am  when 
I rest  under  it  now ; but  it  is  doubly  tender  when  I think 
of  those  with  whom  I have  walked  there ; of  her  whom  but 
a few  summers  ago  I saw  beneath  those  beeches,  smiling  in 
health,  and  beauty,  and  happiness,  her  present  days  lighted 
up  with  innocence  and  mirth,  and  her  future  drawn  in  the 
flattering  colors  of  fancy  and  of  hope. 

But  I know  not  why  I should  trouble  you  with  this  re- 
cital of  the  situation  and  feelings  of  an  individual,  or  indeed 
why  I should  have  written  to  you  at  all,  except  that  I catched 


IN  THE  DECLINE  OF  LIFE . 


203 


a sort  of  congenial  spirit  from  your  87 tli  Number,  and  was 
led  by  the  letter  of  Urbanus  to  compare  your  description  of 
a personage  in  former  times  with  those  whose  sentiments  I 
sometimes  hear  in  the  present  days.  I am  not  sure  that 
these  have  gained  in  point  of  substance  what  they  have  lost 
in  point  of  imagination.  Power,  and  wealth,  and  luxury,  are 
relative  terms  ; and  if  address,  and  prudence,  and  policy,  can 
only  acquire  us  our  share,  we  shall  not  account  ourselves 
more  powerful,  more  rich,  or  more  luxurious,  than  when  in 
the  little  we  possessed  we  were  still  equal  to  those  around  us. 
But  if  we  have  narrowed  the  sources  of  internal  comfort  and 
internal  enjoyment, — if  we  have  debased  the  powers  of  purity 
of  the  mind, — if  we  have  blunted  the  sympathy  or  contracted 
the  affections  of  the  heart,  we  have  lost  some  of  that  treasure 
which  was  absolutely  our  own,  and  derived  not  its  value  from 
comparative  estimation.  Above  all,  if  we  have  allowed  the 
prudence  or  the  interests  of  this  world  to  shut  out  from  our 
souls  the  view  or  the  hopes  of  a better,  we  have  quenched 
that  light  which  would  have  cheered  the  darkness  of  affliction 
and  the  evening  of  old  age,  which  at  this  moment,  Mr.  Loun- 
ger (for  like  an  old  man  I must  come  back  to  myself),  I feel 
restoring  me  my  virtuous  friends,  my  loved  relations,  my 
dearest  child  ! — I am,  &c.  Adrastus. 


€tnn  Intuihs,  ml  an  Siisrriptinn  an  a Ipring. 

BY  THOMAS  WARTON. 

It  is  curious  that  Warton,  who  was  by  no  means  a great  poet, 
should  have  written  some  of  the  most  favorite  sonnets  in  the  lan- 
guage. The  reason  is,  that  they  were  upon  subjects  he  understood, 
and  that  the  writer  was  in  earnest.  Upon  most,  indeed  upon  any  oc- 
casions, Warton’s  mind  was  not  sufficiently  active  or  excitable  to  be 
moved  into  much  eloquence  of  expression.  The  Fellow  of  Trinity 
College,  Oxford,  wras  a luxurious  Protestant  monk,  who  found  some- 
thing to  minister  to  his  satisfaction  in  everything  around  him,  Gothic 
architecture,  books,  country  walks,  &c.,  not  omitting  the  club-room 
and  the  pipe ; but  he  was  content,  in  general,  to  admire  them  through 
the  medium  of  the  thoughts  of  others,  and  so  let  the  companions  of 
his  mind  speak  for  him.  He  was  susceptible,  however,  of  strong 
general  impressions ; and  as  these,  in  the  instances  before  us,  were 
made  by  his  favorite  subjects,  they  are  given  with  corresponding 
truth.  Almost  all  his  sonnets  (they  are  only  nine),  but  especially 
these  two,  notwithstanding  conventional  phrases,  have  elegance,  sim- 
plicity, and  a touching  fervor.  Nobody  had  written  on  the  particular 
topics  before  him,  at  least  not  poetically ; so  that  his  modesty  was 
not  tempted  into  imitation.  It  makes  us  regret  that  he  did  not  oftener 
take  up  new  subjects,  especially  when  we  see  the  original  eye  for  na- 
ture which  is  discernible  even  in  his  half  centos  from  the  poets  he  ad- 
mired. It  must  be  allowed,  nevertheless,  that  the  good  comfortable 
collegian  was  made  rather  to  feel  sentiment  in  others,  than  to  express 
it  in  his  own  sturdy  person. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  WILTON  HOUSE.  205 


INSCRIPTION  OYER  A CALM  AND  CLEAR  SPRING. 

HERE  quench  your  thirst,  and  mark  in  me 
An  emblem  of  true  charity  ; 

Who,  while  my  bounty  I bestow, 

Am  neither  heard,  nor  seen,  to  flow. 

WRITTEN  IN  A BLANK  LEAF  OF  DIIGD ALE’S 
“ MONASTICON  ”* 

DEEM  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 

By  fancy’s  genuine  feelings  unbeguil’d, 

Of  painful  pedantry  the  poring  child, 

Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  th’  historic  page. 

Now  sunk  by  time  and  Henry’s  fiercer  rage. 

Think’st  thou  the  warbling  muses  never  smil’d 
On  his  lone  hours  ? Ingenuous  views  engage 
His  thoughts,  on  themes,  unclassic  falsely  styl’d, 

Intent.  While  cloistered  piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  rolls,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 

Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 

Nor  rough,  nor  barren,  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  WILTON  IIOUSE.t 

FROM  Pembroke’s  princely  dome,  where  mimic  art 
Decks  with  a magic  hand  the  dazzling  bowers, 

Its  living  hues  where  the  warm  pencil  pours, 

And  breathing  forms  from  the  rude  marble  start, 

* The  Monasticon  is  an  account  of  the  monasteries  existing  in 
England  before  the  Reformation. 

f The  seat  of  the  Pembroke  family;  where  there  was,  and  is,  a 
fine  collection  of  pictures. 


06  WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  WILTON  HOUSE. 


How  to  life’s  humbler  scene  can  I depart, 

My  breast  all  glowing  from  those  gorgeous  towers  ? 
In  my  low  cell  how  cheat  the  sullen  hours  ? 

Yain  the  complaint.  For  fancy  can  impart 
(To  fate  superior  and  to  fortune’s  doom) 

Whate’er  adorns  the  stately  storied  hall. 

She,  ’mid  the  dungeon’s  solitary  gloom, 

Can  dress  the  graces  in  their  Attic  pall  ; 

Bid  the  green  landskip’s  vernal  beauty  bloom, 

And  in  bright  trophies  clothe  the  twilight  wali 


Srsrriptinns  nf  Jligljt. 


FROM  THE  NOTES  TO  OSSIAN. 

The  dispute  respecting  the  merits  and  authenticity  of  the  poems 
of  Ossian  has  long  settled  down,  we  believe,  into  an  admission  of  the 
former,  and  a conclusion  that  Macpherson  invented  them,  assisted  by 
traditional  fragments.  It  is  a pity  Macpherson  ever  suffered  the  dis- 
pute to  take  place  ; for  it  has  lefjt  him  a doubtful  reputation  both  for 
genius  and  honesty,  when  perhaps  nobody  would  have  questioned 
either.  The  fragments  may  have  excelled  the  inventions  ; but  hardly 
any  one,  except  a man  of  genius,  could  have  put  them  so  well  together, 
notwithstanding  the  violation  of  times  and  manners.  There  is  a great 
deal  of  repetition  and  monotony ; yet  somehow  these  faults  them- 
selves contribute  to  the  welcome  part  of  the  impression.  They  affect 
us  like  the  dreariness  of  the  heaths  and  the  moaning  of  the  winds. 
But  the  work  would  not  have  stood  its  ground,  and  gained  the  admir- 
ers it  has,  did  it  not  possess  positive  beauties  ; veins  of  genuine  feel- 
ing and  imagination.  It  is  understood  that  an  Italian  translation  was 
a favorite  with  Bonaparte  and  his  officers  during  the  early  republican 
times.  The  present  king  of  Sweden,  Oscar  Bernadotte,  is  said,  we  be- 
lieve, to  have  been  named  after  the  son  of  Ossian.  But  even  these 
illustrious  testimonies  to  its  merit  are  unnecessary  after  the  single  one 
of  Gray,  who  in  his  Letters  repeatedly  expresses  his  admiration,  par- 
ticularly of  the  passages  before  us.  We  shall  extract  his  notice  of 
them  by  way  of  argument  as  well  as  critique.  It  is  hardly  requisite 
to  mention,  that  Macpherson  does  not  attribute  these  passages  to  Os- 
sian. He  has  put  them  in  a note,  and  says  they  were  written  by  some 
imitator  “a  thousand  years  afterwards !”  Gray  takes  no  notice  of 


203 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NIGHT. 


this ; nor  shall  we.  If  they  are  not  of  the  same  manufacture  as  the 
rest,  ghost  is  not  like  ghost,  nor  a wind  a wind. 

Observe  how  beautifully  Gray  talks  of  the  gust  of  wind  “ recollect- 
ing itself,”  and  resembling  the  voice  of  a spirit. 

“ I have  received,”  he  says  to  his  friend  Mr.  Stonhewer,  another 
Scotch  packet  with  a third  specimen,  inferior  in  kind  (because  it  is 
merely  description),  but  full  of  nature  and  noble  wild  imagination. 
Five  bards  pass  the  night  at  the  castle  of  a chief  (himself  a principal 
bard)  ; each  goes  in  his  turn  to  observe  the  face  of  things,  and  returns 
with  an  extempore  picture  of  the  changes  he  has  seen  (it  is  an  October 
night,  the  harvest  month  of  the  Highlands).  This  is  the  wdiole  plan  ; 
yet  there  is  a contrivance,  and  a preparation  of  ideas,  that  you  would 
not  expect.  The  oddest  thing  is,  that  every  one  of  them  sees  ghosts 
(more  or  less).  The  idea  that  struck  me  and  surprised  me  most,  is 
the  following  : — One  of  them  (describing  a storm  of  wind  and  rain) 
says, 

“ Ghosts  rido  on  the  tempest  to-night ; 

Sweet  is  thoir  voice  between  the  gusts  of  wind  ; 

Their  songs  are  of  other  worlds !” 

Did  you  never  observe  (while  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud)  that 
pause,  as  the  gust  is  recollecting  itself,  and  rising  upon  the  ear  in  a 
shrill  and  plaintive  note,  like  the  swell  of  an  iEolian  harp  I I do  as- 
sure you  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  like  the  voice  of  a spirit. 
Thomson  had  an  ear  sometimes : he  was  not  deaf  to  this  ; and  has  de- 
scribed it  gloriously,  but  given  it  another  different  turn,  and  of  more 
horror.  I cannot  repeat  the  lines : it  is  in  his  Winter.  There  is 
another  very  fine  picture  in  one  of  them.  It  describes  the  breaking 
of  the  clouds  after  the  storm,  before  it  is  settled  into  a calm,  and  when 
the  moon  is  seen  by  short  intervals. 

“ The  waves  are  tumbling  on  the  lake, 

And  lash  the  rocky  sides, 

The  boat  is  brimful  in  the  cove, 

The  oars  on  the  rocking  tide. 

Sad  sits  a maid  beneath  a cliff, 

And  eyes  the  rolling  stream ; 

Her  lover  promised  to  come. 

She  saw  his  boat  (when  it  was  evening)  on  the  lake; 

Are  these  his  groans  on  the  gale  ? 

Is  this  his  broken  boat  on  the  shore  ?” 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NIGHT . 


209 


Note,  that  Gray  has  written  out  these  sentences  in  distinct  lines, 
as  thorugh  the}'  had  been  metrically  disposed  in  the  original,  and  not 
prose.  And  indeed  it  is  difficult  not  to  discern  a music  in  them.,  or  to 
think  they  want  a music  of  any  other  sort.  But  the  effect  would  be 
different  in  long  compositions. 


FIRST  BARD. 


IGHT  is  dull  and  dark.  The  clouds  rest  on  the  hills. 


-b'  No  star  with  green  trembling  beam,  no  moon,  looks 
from  the  sky.  I hear  the  blast  in  the  wood ; but  I hear  it 
distant  far.  The  stream  of  the  valley  murmurs  ; but  its 
murmur  is  sullen  and  sad.  From  the  tree  at  the  grave  of 
the  dead  the  long-liowling  owl  is  heard.  I see  a dim  form 
on  the  plain  ! It  is  a ghost  ! it  fades,  it  flies.  Some  funeral 
shall  pass  this  way ; the  meteor  marks  the  path. 

The  distant  dog  is  howling  from  the  hut  of  the  hill 
The  stag  lies  on  the  mountain  moss  : the  hind  is  at  his  side 
She  hears  the  wind  in  its  branching  horns.  She  starts,  but 
lies  again. 

The  roe  is  in  the  cleft  of  the  rock : the  heath-cock’s 
head  is  beneath  his  wing.  No  beast,  no  bird  is  abroad,  but 
the  owl  and  the  howling  fox.  She  on  a leafless  tree ; he  in 
a cloud  on  the  hill. 

Dark,  panting,  trembling,  sad,  the  traveller  has  lost  his 
way.  Through  shrubs,  through  thorns,  he  goes  along  the 
gurgling  rill.  He  fears  the  rock  and  the  fen.  He  fears  the 
ghost  of  night.  The  old  tree  groans  to  the  blast ; the  fall 
ing  branch  resounds.  The  wind  drives  the  withered  burs, 
clung  together,  along  the  grass.  It  is  the  light  tread  of  a 
ghost ! He  trembles  amidst  the  night. 

Dark,  dusky,  howling  is  night,  cloudy,  windy,  and  full  of 
ghosts  ! The  dead  are  abroad  ! My  friends,  receive  me  from 
the  night. 


210 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NIGHT. 


SECOND  BARD. 

The  wind  is  up.  The  shower  descends.  The  spirit  of 
the  mountain  shrieks.  Woods  fall  from  limb.  Windows 

O 

flap.  The  growing  river  roars.  The  traveller  attempts  the 
ford.  Hark  ! that  shriek  ! he  dies  ! The  storm  drives  the 
horse  from  the  hill,  the  goat,  the  lowing  cow.  They  tremble 
as  drives  the  shower,  beside  the  mouldering  bank. 

The  hunter  starts  from  sleep,  in  his  lonely  hut ; he  wakes 
the  fire  decayed.  His  wet  dogs  smoke  around  him.  He  fills 
the  chinks  with  heath.  Loud  roar  two  mountain-streams 
which  meet  beside  his  booth. 

Sad  on  the  side  of  a hill  the  wandering  shepherd  sits. 
The  tree  resounds  above  him.  The  stream  roars  down  the 
rock.  He  waits  for  the  rising  moon  to  guide  him  to  his 
home. 

Ghosts  ride  on  the  storm  to-night.  Sweet  is  their 
voice  between  the  squalls  of  wind.  Their  songs  are  of 
other  worlds. 

The  rain  is  past.  The  dry  wind  blows.  Streams  roar, 
and  windows  flap.  Cold  drops  fall  from  the  roof.  I see  the 
starry  sky.  But  the  shower  gathers  again.  The  west  is 
gloomy  and  dark.  Night  is  stormy  and  dismal ; receive  me, 
my  friends,  from  night. 

THIRD  BARD. 

The  wind  still  sounds  between  the  hills,  and  whistles 
through  the  grass  of  the  rock.  The  firs  fall  from  their  place. 
The  turfy  hut  is  torn.  The  clouds,  divided,  fly  over  the  sky, 
and  show  the  burning  stars.  The  meteor,  token  of  death  ! 
flies  sparkling  through  the  gloom.  It  rests  on  the  hill.  I 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NIGHT. 


211 


see  the  withered  fern,  the  dark-browed  rock,  the  fallen 
oak.  Who  is  that  in  his  shroud  beneath  the  tree,  by  the 
stream  ? 

The  waves  dark  tumble  on  the  lake,  and  lash  its  rocky 
sides.  The  boat  is  brimful  in  the  cove  ; the  oars  on  the 
rocking  tide.  A maid  sits  sad  before  the  rock,  and  eyes  the 
rolling  stream.  Her  lover  promised  to  come.  She  saw 
his  boat,  when  yet  it  was  light,  on  the  lake.  Is  this  his 
broken  boat  on  the  shore  ? Are  these  his  groans  on  the 
wind  ? 

Hark ! the  hail  rattles  around.  The  flaky  snow  de 
scends.  The  tops  of  the  hills  are  white.  The  stormy  wunds 
abate.  Various  is  the  night  and  cold  ; receive  me,  my  friends, 
from  night. 


FOURTH  BARD. 

Night  is  calm  and  fair  : blue,  starry,  settled  is  night  ! 
The  winds,  with  the  clouds,  are  gone.  They  sink  behind 
the  hill.  The  moon  is  upon  the  mountains.  Trees  glister  : 
streams  shine  on  the  rock.  Bright  rolls  the  settled  lake  : 
bright  the  stream  of  the  vale. 

I see  the  trees  overturned  ; the  shocks  of  corn  on  the 
plain.  The  wakeful  hind  rebuilds  the  shocks,  and  whistles  on 
the  distant  field. 

Calm,  settled,  fair  is  night  ! Who  comes  from  the  place 
of  the  dead  ? That  form  with  the  robe  of  snow-white  arms, 
and  dark-brown  hair  ! It  is  the  daughter  of  the  chief  of 
the  people  : she  that  lately  fell  ! Come,  let  us  view  thee, 
0 maid  ! thou  that  hast  been  the  delight  of  heroes  ! The 
blast  drives  the  phantom  away  : white  without  form,  it  as- 
cends the  hill. 

The  breezes  drive  the  blue  mist  slowlj’  over  the  narrow 


212 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NIGHT. 


vale.  It  rises  on  the  hill,  and  joins  its  head  to  heaven. 
Night  is  settled,  calm,  blue,  starry,  bright  with  the  moon,  Be- 
eeive  me  not,  my  friends,  for  lovely  is  the  night. 

FIFTH  BAUD. 

Night  is  calm,  but  dreary.  The  moon  is  in  a cloud  in 
the  west.  Slow  moves  that  pale  beam  along  the  shaded  hill. 
The  distant  wave  is  heard.  The  torrent  murmurs  on  the 
rock.  The  cock  is  heard  from  the  booth.  More  than  half 
the  night  is  past.  The  housewife,  groping  in  the  gloom,  re- 
kindles the  settled  fire.  The  hunter  thinks  that  day  ap- 
proaches, and  calls  his  bounding  dogs.  He  ascends  the  hill, 
and  whistles  on  his  way.  A blast  removes  the  cloud  : he 
sees  the  starry  plough  of  the  north.  Much  of  the  night  is  to 
pass.  He  nods  by  the  mossy  rock. 

Hark ! the  whirlwind  is  in  the  wood.  A low  murmur  in 
the  vale  ! It  is  the  mighty  army  of  the  dead,  returning  from 
the  air. 

The  moon  rests  behind  the  hill.  The  beam  is  still  on 
that  lofty  rock.  Long  are  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Now 
it  is  dark  over  all.  Night  is  dreary,  silent,  and  dark  ; re- 
ceive me,  my  friends,  from  night. 

THE  CHIEF. 

Let  clouds  rest  on  the  hills,  spirits  fly,  and  travellers 
fear.  Let  the  winds  of  the  woods  arise,  the  sounding  storms 
descend.  Boar  streams,  and  windows  flap,  and  green-winged 
meteors  fly  ! Bise  the  pale  moon  from  behind  her  hills,  or 
enclose  her  head  in  clouds  ! Night  is  alike  to  me,  stormy  or 
gloomy  the  sky.  Night  flies  before  the  beam,  when  it  is 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NIGHT. 


213 


poured  on  the  hill  The  young  day  returns  from  his  clouds, 
but  we  return  no  more. 

Where  are  our  chiefs  of  old?  Where  our  kings  of 
mighty  name  ? The  fields  of  their  battles  are  silent.  Scarce 
their  mossy  tombs  remain.  We  shall  also  be  forgot.  This 
lofty  house  shall  fall.  Our  sons  shall  not  behold  the  ruins 
in  grass.  They  shall  ask  of  the  aged,  u Where  stood  the 
walls  of  our  fathers  ?” 

Raise  the  song,  and  strike  the  harp ; send  round  the 
shells  of  joy.  Suspend  a hundred  tapers  on  high.  Youths 
and  maids  begin  the  dance.  Let  some  graybeard  be  near 
me,  to  tell  the  deeds  of  other  times ; of  kings  renowned  in 
our  land,  of  chiefs  we  behold  no  more.  Thus  let  the  night 
pass,  until  morning  shall  appear  in  our  hall.  Then  let  the 
bow  be  at  hand,  the  dogs,  the  youths  of  the  chase.  We  shall 
ascend  the  hill  with  day,  an$  awake  the  deer 


tlitimimit  mill  ©mill  nf  n Itntisninu. 

PASSAGES  SELECTED  FR.OM  TROTTER’S  MEMOIRS  OF  FOX. 

Politics  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  volume.  The  reader  will 
have  seen,  that  the  questions  between  Whig  and  Tory  are  of  no  more 
concern  to  us,  in  these  delightful  lands  of  compilation,  than  any  other 
interference  which  should  limit  their  extent  and  freedom.  There 
have  been  amiable  and  large-hearted  men  on  both  sides.  Mr.  Fox 
was  one  of  them ; and  we  repeat  these  accounts  of  him,  as  we  should 
of  any  other  human  being  under  the  like  circumstances,  because  they 
suit  this  portion  of  our  work,  and  the  whole  genial  intention  of  it. 

Mr.  Trotter’s  book  has  some  faults  of  style,  but  not  in  the  passages 
extracted.  He  has  given  a valuable  report  of  the  way  in  which  the 
great  statesman  passed  his  time  at  Saint  Anne’s  Hill ; and  the  account 
of  his  owm  feelings,  while  occupied  in  waiting  his  patron’s  last  hour, 
especially  during  the  visit  to  the  dressing-room  once  occupied  by  the 
Duchess  of  Devonshire,  is  very  striking.  Saint  Anne’s  Hill  is  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Chertsey. 

ST.  Anne’s  Hill  is  delightfully  situated ; it  commands  a 
rich  and  extensive  prospect.  The  house  is  embowered  in 
trees,  resting  on  the  side  of  a hill,  its  grounds  declining  grace- 
fully to  a road,  which  bounds  them  at  bottom.  Some  fine 
trees  are  grouped  round  the  house,  and  three  remarkably 
beautiful  ones  stand  on  the  lawm  ; while  a profusion  of  shrubs 
are  distributed  throughout  with  taste  and  judgment.  Here 


RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OF  A STATESMAN  215 


Mr.  Fox  was  the  tranquil  and  happy  possessor  of  about  thirty 
acres,  and  the  inmate  of  a small  but  pleasant  mansion.  The 
simplicity  and  benignity  of  his  manners,  speaking  the  integri- 
ty of  his  character,  soon  dispelled  those  feelings  of  awe, 
which  one  naturally  experiences  on  approaching  what  is  very 
exalted. 

The  domestic  life  of  Mr.  Fox  was  equally  regular  and 
agreeable.  In  summer  he  rose  between  six  and  seven ; in 
winter  before  eight.  The  assiduous  care  and  excellent  man- 
agement of  Mrs.  Fox  rendered  his  rural  mansion  the  abode 
of  peace,  elegance,  and  order,  and  had  long  procured  her  the 
gratitude  and  esteem  of  those  private  friends  whose  visits  to 
Mr.  Fox,  in  his  retirement  at  St.  Anne’s  Hill,  made  them 
witnesses  of  this  amiable  woman’s  conduct.  I confess  I car- 
ried with  me  some  of  the  vulgar  prejudices  respecting  this 
great  man  1 IIow  completely  was  I undeceived ! After 
breakfast,  which  took  place  between  eight  and  nine  in  sum- 
mer, and  at  a little  after  nine  in  winter,  he  usually  read  some 
Italian  author  with  Mrs.  Fox,  and  then  spent  the  time  pre- 
ceding dinner  at  his  literary  studies,  in  which  the  Greek  poets 
bore  a principal  part. 

A frugal  but  plentiful  dinner  took  place  at  three,  or  half- 
past  two,  in  summer,  and  at  four  in  winter ; and  a few  glasses 
of  wine  were  followed  by  coffee.  The  evening  was  dedicated 
to  walking  and  conversation  till  tea-time,  when  reading  aloud 
in  history  commenced,  and  continued  till  near  ten.  A light 
supper  of  fruit,  pastry,  or  something  very  trifling,  finished  the 
day ; and  at  half-past  ten  the  family  were  gone  to  rest. 

At  breakfast  the  newspaper  was  read,  commonly  by  Mr. 
Fox,  as  well  as  the  letters  which  had  arrived ; for  such  was 
the  noble  confidence  of  his  mind,  that  he  concealed  nothing 
from  his  domestic  circle,  unless  it  were  the  faults  or  the  se- 
crets of  his  friends.  At  such  times,  when  the  political  topics 


216  RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OF  A STATESMAN. 


of  the  day  were  naturally  introduced  by  the  paper,  I never 
could  observe  the  least  acrimony  or  anger  against  that  party 
which  so  sedulously,  and  indeed  successfully,  had  labored  to 
exclude  him  from  the  management  of  affairs,  by  misrepresen- 
tations of  his  motives,  rather  than  by  refutations  of  his  ar- 
guments. 

In  private  conversation,  I think,  he  was  rather  averse  to 
•political  discussion,  generally  preferring  subjects  connected 
with  natural  history,  in  any  of  its  branches : above  all,  dwel- 
ling with  delight  on  classical  and  poetical  subjects.  It  is  not 
to  be  supposed,  however,  that,  where  the  interests  and  happi- 
ness of  millions  were  concerned,  he  preserved  a cold  silence. 

About  the  end  of  May,  Mrs.  Fox  mentioned  slightly  to 
me  that  Mr.  Fox  was  unwell ; but  at  this  time  there  was  no 
alarm  or  apprehension.  In  the  beginning  of  June  I received 
a message  from  her,  requesting  me  to  come  to  him,  as  he  had 
expressed  a wish  for  me  to  read  to  him,  if  I was  disengaged. 
It  was  in  the  evening,  and  I found  him  reclining  upon  a 
couch,  uneasy  and  languid.  It  seemed  to  me  so  sudden  an 
attack,  that  I was  surprised  and  shocked.  He  requested  me 
to  read  some  of  the  ASneid  to  him,  and  desired  me  to  turn  to 
the  fourth  book : this  was  his  favorite  part.  The  tone  of 
melancholy  with  which  that  book  commences,  was  pleasing  to 
his  mind : he  appeared  relieved,  and  to  forget  his  uneasiness 
and  pains;  but  I felt  this  recurrence  to  Virgil  as  a mournful 
omen  of  a great  attack  upon  his  system,  and  that  he  was  al- 
ready looking  to  abstract  himself  from  noise,  and  tumult,  and 
politics.  Henceforth  his  illness  rapidly  increased,  and  was 
pronounced  a dropsy  \ I have  reason  to  think  that  he  turned 
his  thoughts  very  soon  to  retirement  at  St.  Anne’s  Hill,  as 
he  found  the  pressure  of  business  insupportably  harassing  ; 
and  I have  ever  had  in  mind  those  lines,  as  very  applicable 
to  him  at  this  time  : — 


RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OF  A STATESMAN.  217 


“ And  as  an  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 

Pants  to  the  goal,  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 

I still  had  hopes — my  long  vexations  past — 

Here  to  return,  and  die  (at  home)  at  last.” 

Another  of  these  symptoms  of  melancholy  foreboding,  1 
thought,  was  shown  in  his  manner  at  Holland  House.  Mrs. 
Fox,  he,  and  I,  drove  there  several  times  before  his  illness 
confined  him,  and  when  exercise  was  strongly  urged.  He 
looked  around  him  the  last  day  he  was  there  with  a farewell 
tenderness  that  struck  me  very  much.  It  was  the  place 
where  he  had  spent  his  youthful  days.  Every  lawn,  garden, 
tree,  and  walk,  were  viewed  by  him  with  peculiar  affection. 
He  pointed  out  its  beauties  to  me,  and.  in  particular,  showed 
me  a green  lane  or  avenue,  which  his  mother,  the  late  Lady 
Holland,  had  made  by  shutting  up  a road.  He  was  a very 
exquisite  judge  of  the  picturesque,  and  had  mentioned  to  me 
how  beautiful  this  road  had  become,  since  converted  into  an 
alley.  He  raised  his  eyes  in  the  house,  looking  around,  and 
was  earnest  in  pointing  out  everything  he  liked  and  remem- 
bered. 

Soon,  however,  his  illness  very  alarmingly  increased ; 
he  suffered  dreadful  pains,  and  often  rose  from  dinner  with 
intolerable  suffering.  His  temper  never  changed,  and  was 
always  serene  and  sweet : it  was  amazing  to  behold  so  much 
distressing  anguish,  and  so  great  equanimity.  His  friends, 
alarmed,  crowded  round  him,  as  well  as  those  relatives  who, 
in  a peculiar  degree,  knew  his  value  and  affectionate  nature. 

Mrs.  Fox,  whose  unwearied  attentions  were  the  chief 
comfort  of  the  sufferer,  and  myself,  read  aloud  a great  deal 
to  him.  Crabbe’s  poems,  in  manuscript,  pleased  him  a great, 
deal ; in  particular,  the  little  episode  of  Phoebe  Dawson.  He 
did  not,  however,  hear  them  all  read,  and  there  are  parts  in 
which  he  would  have  suggested  alterations.  We  thus  read, 

10 


218  RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OR  A STATESMAN. 


relieving  each  other,  a great  number  of  novels  to  him.  He 
now  saw  very  few  persons.  In  truth,  he  had  now  every  reason 
to  do  so, — visitors  fatigued  and  oppressed  him.  He  lan- 
guished for  St.  Anne’s  Hill,  and  there  all  his  hopes  and 
wishes  centered ; he  thought  of  a private  life,  and  of  resign- 
ing his  office,  and  we  had  hopes  that  he  might  be  restored 
sufficiently  to  enjoy  health  by  abstaining  from  business.  The 
Duke  of  Devonshire  offered  him  the  use  of  Chiswick  House 
as  a resting-place,  from  whence,  if  he  gained  strength  enough, 
he  might  proceed  to  St.  Anne’s.  Preparations  for  his  de- 
parture began,  therefore,  to  be  made,  which  he  saw  with  visi- 
ble and  unfeigned  pleasure. 

Two  or  three  days  before  he  was  removed  to  Chiswick 
House,  Mr.  Fox  sent  for  me,  and  with  marked  hesitation  and 
anxiety,  as  if  he  much  wished  it,  and  yet  was  unwilling  to  ask 
it,  informed  me  of  his  plan  of  going  to  Chiswick  House,  re- 
questing me  to  form  one  of  the  family  there.  There  was  no 
occasion  to  request  me ; duty,  affection,  and  gratitude,  would 
have  carried  me  wherever  he  went.  About  the  end  of  July, 
Mrs.  Fox  and  he  went  there,  and  on  the  following  day  I 
joined  them.  No  mercenary  hand  approached  him.  Mrs. 
Fox  hung  over  him  every  day  with  vigilant  and  tender  affec- 
tion : when  exhausted  I took  her  place  ; and  at  night,  as  his 
disorder  grew  grievously  oppressive,  a confidential  servant 
and  myself  shared  the  watching  and  labors  between  us.  I 
took  the  first  part,  because  I read  to  him,  as  well  as  gave  him 
medicine  or  nourishment. 

We  continued  our  reading  of  Johnson'1  s Lives  of  the  Poets. 
How  often  at  midnight,  as  he  listened  with  avidity,  and  made 
the  remarks  that  occurred,  he  apologized  to  me  for  keeping 
me  from  my  rest,  but,  still  delighted  with  ourN  reading,  would 
say,  “ Well,  you  may  go  on  a little  more,”  as  I assured  him 
that  I liked  the  reading  aloud.  At  these  times  he  would  de* 


RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OF  A STATESMAN  219 


fend  Johnson,  when  I blamed  his  severity  and  unwillingness 
to  allow,  and  incapacity  to  appreciate,  poetical  merit, — would 
refer  me  to  his  life  of  Savage,  and  plainly  showed  much  par- 
tiality for  Johnson.  Of  Dryden,  he  was  a warm  and  almost 
enthusiastic  admirer.  He  conversed  a great  deal  about  that 
great  English  poet ; and  indeed  I never  perceived,  at  any 
time,  a stronger  relish  for,  or  admiration  of,  the  poets,  than 
at  this  afflicting  period.  I generally  read  to  him  till  three 
or  four  in  the  morning,  and  then  retired  for  a few  hours : he 
showed  always  great  uneasiness  at  my  sitting  up,  but  evident- 
ly was  soothed  and  gratified  by  my  being  with  him.  At  first 
he  apologized  for  my  preparing  the  nourishment,  which  re- 
quired to  be  warmed  in  the  night ; but  seeing  how  sincerely 
I was  devoted  to  him,  he  ceased  to  make  any  remark.  Once 
he  asked  me,  at  midnight,  when  preparing  chicken  panade  for 
him,  “ Does  this  amuse  you?  I hope  it  does.”  He  was  so 
far  from  exacting  attendance,' that  he  received  every  little 
good  office,  every  proper  and  necessary  attention,  as  a favor 
and  kindness  done  him.  So  unvitiated  by  commerce  with 
mankind,  so  tender,  so  alive  to  all  the  charms  of  friendship, 
was  this  excellent  man’s  heart ! His  anxiety  also,  lest  Mrs. 
Fox’s  health  should  suffer,  was  uniformly  great  till  the  day 
he  expired. 

Lord  Holland  and  General  Fitzpatrick,  as  he  grew  worse, 
came  and  resided  at  Chiswick  House  entirely.  Miss  Fox 
also  remained  there.  Thus  he  had  around  him,  every  day, 
all  he  loved  most ; and  the  overwhelming  pressure  of  his 
disorder  was  as  much  as  possible  relieved  by  the  converse 
and  sight  of  cherished  relatives  and  friends.  Lord  Holland 
showed  how  much  he  valued  such  an  uncle.  He  never  left 
him  ; — the  hopes  of  power  or  common  allurements  of  ambi 
tion,  had  no  effect  upon  him.  His  affectionate  attention  to 
Mr.  Fox,  and  his  kindness  to  all  who  assisted  that  great  man, 


220  RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OF  A STATESMAN. 


were  endearing  in  a high  degree.  Miss  Fox — calm  and  re- 
signed, grieving,  without  uttering  a word — would  sit  at  the 
foot  of  his  bed,  and  often  reminded  me  of  the  fine  heads  of 
females,  done  by  masterly  hands,  to  express  sorrow,  dignity, 
and  faith  in  God. 

There  was  now  a plaintiveness  in  his  manner  very  inter- 
esting, but  no  way  derogating  from  his  fortitude  and  calm- 
ness. lie  did  not  affect  the  stoic.  He  bore  his  pains  as  a 
Christian  and  a man.  Till  the  last  day,  however,  I do  not 
think  he  conceived  himself  in  danger.  A few  days  before 
the  termination  of  his  mortal  career,  he  said  to  me  at  night, 
u Holland  thinks  me  worse  than  I am  and,  in  fact,  the  ap- 
pearances were  singularly  delusive  not  a week  before  he  ex- 
pired. In  the  day,  he  arose  and  walked  a little,  and  his  looks 
were  not  ghastly  or  alarming  by  any  means.  Often  did  he 
latterly  walk  to  his  window  to  gaze  on  the  berries  of  the 
mountain  ash,  which  hung  clustering  on  a young  tree  at  Chis- 
wick House ; every  morning  he  returned  to  look  at  it  he 
would  praise  it,  as  the  morning  breeze,  rustling,  shook  the 
berries  and  leaves ; but  then  the  golden  sun,  which  played 
upon  them,  and  the  fresh  air  that  comes  with  the  dawn,  were 
to  me  almost  heart-sickening,  though  once  so  delightful : he 
whom  I so  much  cherished  and  esteemed, — whose  kindness 
had  been  ever  unremitting  and  unostentatious, — he  whose  so- 
ciety was  to  me  happiness  and  peace, — was  not  long  to  enjoy 
this  sun  and  this  morning  air.  His  last  look  on  that  moun- 
tain-ash was  his  farewell  to  nature. 

I continued  to  read  aloud  to  him  every  night,  and  as  he 
occasionally  dropt  asleep,  I was  then  left  to  the  awful  medita- 
tions incident  to  such  a situation.  No  person  was  awake  be- 
side myself ; the  lofty  rooms  and  hall  of  Chiswick  House 
were  silent,  and  the  world  reposed.  In  one  of  those  melan- 
choly pauses,  I walked  about  for  a few  moments,  and  found 


RETIREMENT  AND  DEATH  OF  A STATESMAN  221 


myself  involuntarily  and  accidentally  in  the  late  Duchess  of 
Devonshire’s  dressing-room.  Everything  was  as  that  amiable 
and  accomplished  lady  had  left  it : the  music-book  still  open, 
the  books  not  restored  to  their  places,  a chair  as  if  she  had  but 
just  left  it,  and  every  mark  of  a recent  inhabitant  in  this  ele- 
gant apartment.  The  Duchess  had  died  in  May,  and  Mr. 
Fox  had  very  severely  felt  her  loss.  Half-opened  notes  lay 
scattered  about.  The  night  was  solemn  and  still ; and  at 
that  moment,  had  some  floating  sound  of  music  vibrated 
through  the  air,  I cannot  tell  to  what  my  feelings  would  have 
been  wrought.  Never  had  I experienced  so  strong  a sensa- 
tion of  the  transitory  nature  of  life,  of  the  vanity  of  a fleeting 
world  ! I stood  scarce  breathing, — heard  nothing, — listened. 
Scarcely  knowing  how  I left  the  dressing-room,  I returned. 
All  was  still.  Mr.  Fox  slept  quietly.  I was  deluded  into 
a tranquil  joy  to  find  him  still  alive,  and  breathing  without 
difficulty.  IT is  countenance  was  always  serene  in  sleep  : no 
troubled  dreams  ever  agitated  or  distorted  it, — it  was  the 
transcript  of  his  guileless  mind.  * 

Mr.  Fox  expired  between  five  and  six  in  the  afternoon 
of  the  13th  of  September,  1806.  The  Tower  guns  were 
firing  for  the  capture  of  Buenos  Ayres,  as  he  was  breathing 
his  last. 


(lornifs  (Elrgq  in  a (fomttnj  (fjjurrljtjarl 

We  desire  to  say  as  little  as  possible  about  this  affecting  and  noble 
poem.  It  is  so  sweet,  so  true,  and  so  universally  appreciated,  that  vve 
feel  inclined  to  be  as  silent  before  it,  as  if  listening  to  the  wind  over 
the  graves.  It  is  the  fit  conclusion  for  our  book,  both  in  the  subject 
and  spirit — serious,  calm,  and  hopeful. 

The  epitaph  is  on  the  author  ; and  never  did  a man  speak  of  himself 
with  a truth  more  beautifully  combining  dignity  with  humility,  a sense 
of  all  that  he  felt  worthy  and  all  that  he  felt  w'eak.  We  suspect,  that 
the  “ cross’d  in  love”  of  the  previous  lines  might  very  well  apply  to 
Gray.  He  had  secret  griefs  of  some  kind,  perhaps  of  disease,  perhaps 
of  sympathy  with  a good  mother,  and  distress  at  having  a bad  father 
(for  such,  alas  ! wjas  the  case)  ; but  whatever  they  were,  we  may  be 
sure  that  they  wrere  those  of  a good  and  kind  man. 

The  poem  before  us  is  as  sweet  as  if  written  by  Coleridge,  and  as 
pious  and  universal  as  if  religion  had  uttered  it,  undisturbed  by  po- 
lemics. It  is  a quintessence  of  humanity. 


THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o’er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a solemn  stillness  holds, 


ELEGY  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


223 


Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree’s  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield  ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bow’d  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  1 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e’er  gave, 


*224  ELEGY  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  yc  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway’d 
Or  wak’d  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Bich  w ith  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne’er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom’d  caves  of  ocean  bear  ; 

Full  many  a flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  in  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country’s  blood. 

Th’  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 


ELEGY  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


225 


To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  ; nor  circumscrib’d  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,.  but  their  crimes  confin’d  ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse’s  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learnt  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester’d  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e’en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck’d. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  tli’  unletteFd  muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  * 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a prey, 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e’er  resign’d, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  hand  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 

Ev’n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 

Ev’n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

10* 


226 


ELEGY  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th’  unhonof’d  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

u Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn. 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

ci  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  hign, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  bubbles  by. 

“ Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping  woful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  craz’d  with  care,  or  cross’d  in  hopeless  love. 

u One  morn  I miss’d  him  on  the  custom’d  hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree : 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

“ The  next  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchyard  path  we  saw  him  borne— 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
’Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.” 

&1jc  SEpitapf). 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown ; 

Fair  science  frown’d  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  melancholy  mark’d  him  for  her  own. 


ELEGY  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


227 


Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send ; 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a tear ; 

He  gain’d  from  Heaven  (’twas  all  he  wish’d)  a friend. 

Ho  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  Lis  God. 


THE  END 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


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